


Arya Stark and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year

by pollykhaleesi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/F, F/M, Incomplete, M/M, Triwizard Tournament
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 72,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23935000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollykhaleesi/pseuds/pollykhaleesi
Summary: Arya Stark has just started her sixth year at Hogwarts, and after a stern word from her mother about not getting into trouble this year, she is determined to work hard and avoid shenanigans. The rest of the world has other plans however, and her year of hard study and staying out of detention is interrupted with the arrival of the Triwizard Tournament at the school. Under the seemingly lighthearted entertainment and international magical co-operation that the tournament is meant to bring, lurks a darker purpose, and Arya is dragged right down into it. On top of that, she can't help getting herself into awkward situations with her quidditch captain, Gendry Waters, or her close friend, Aegon Targaryen. Why is it that Arya can never have a normal year at Hogwarts?
Relationships: Arya Stark/Aegon VI Targaryen, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 127
Kudos: 203





	1. Chapter 1

Arya could not stand Gendry Waters. And he couldn’t stand her either. Ever since third year when she had joined the Gryffindor quidditch team, he hadn’t said a nice word to her, or about her, and so she had done the same back. The situation had been exacerbated last year when he had become Gryffindor captain and actually got to tell her what to do, something that never sat well with Arya. Then there was the fact that she had been absent from their last game as a consequence of a dare gone wrong, resulting in several weeks in the hospital wing, and a school-wide ban on being within one hundred yards of the whomping willow. In all fairness, she would never in a million years have done it if she’d known it would have ended up in her missing the final against Slytherin- she’d wanted to wipe the slimy smile off Joffrey Lannister’s ugly little face more than anyone else on the team. Alas, she had been replaced with little Lyanna Mormont, who was really more of a chaser than a seeker, and didn’t manage to catch the snitch before Slytherin. No one else on the team really blamed Arya; it had been a freak accident, but the captain never came to visit her in the hospital wing like they all did, never took any notice of her at all really.

  
Tryouts were in a week though, and Arya was determined to make the team again, despite the grumpy captain. She had been training all summer, thanking the gods how lucky she was to live in Winterfell, in the middle of nowhere where she could fly for miles and not see another soul, muggle or wizard. Besides, next year Waters would be gone and she would (or so she thought) be a brilliant candidate for captain. She needed to be the best. So whilst everyone else was sound asleep, enjoying their first lay-in after a busy first week back at Hogwarts, she was mentally preparing herself for the early start she was about to give herself.

  
She jumped out of bed, padded across the circular tower room and stripped in front of one of the large wardrobes, pulling out clothes from the pile at the bottom that she had thrown out of her trunk upon arrival. She had learnt long ago not to be bothered by nakedness with the girls in the room, it was impossible (and to be honest, unreasonable) to be modest with girls that you were going to share a room with for seven years of your life. She briefly wondered if the boys did the same in their corner of Gryffindor tower, then shrugged the thought off- this year she had way too much going on to be getting distracted by trivial things like naked boys. On Platform 9¾ Arya had been issued the usual back-to-school warning about knuckling down and not getting into trouble this year by her mother, and had decided that maybe it was finally time to listen. She pulled on running shorts, grubby trainers, and a muggle jumper that had once belonged to Robb- before being unburdened from his wardrobe by a much in need younger sister of course. Like most of her clothes, it was way too big, the sleeves were rolled up three times just so her fingers showed, and the white tick logo was slowly unravelling every time it was washed. It made her look more like a child than ever, but she loved it. She attempted to scrape her hair into a French plait as she sloped through the common room and down into the castle, the only style that could keep it semi-contained. Her mother had taught her the style after become exasperated one day that Arya’s hair resembled a “bird’s nest” after a particularly furious afternoon playing quidditch out in the godswood at home with Robb and Jon. She had to admit, it was a great improvement on visibility during quidditch matches.

  
Ducking through a side door in the antechamber of the great hall, she finally breathed fresh air and beamed; since the passing of her father a few years ago, exercise had always been a respite for her, a way to cope with stress and anxiety. Now it was that and more, and she felt like she had a purpose as she started out across the sloping grass outside the castle, heading towards the outskirts of the forbidden forest. An update to her usual training routine had come in the form of an unexpected gift from her sister during the summer; a muggle iPod, expertly manipulated to work even inside the confines of the ancient Hogwarts grounds. From Sansa, an expert on both charms and muggle studies, it was the perfect amalgamation of her skills- and no doubt contraband, which is why Arya assumed her perfect Head Girl sister was more than happy to gift it to her. The contraband item was filled with music of her favourite muggle artists; and right now, blaring through her lilac earphones was a mix of female punk artists reserved explicitly for Sunday morning runs. Her jog took her down past the shallow edge of the lake and greenhouses, gradually speeding up towards a run as she approached the vegetable gardens and the groundskeeper’s hut, smoke swirling out of the chimney from what she assumed was last nights’ dying fire. Arya took a sweeping curve around the whomping willow, careful to stay well out of reach of its gnarled limbs, before taking a left at the pumpkin patch and ending in a sprint towards the quidditch pitch. By the time she reached the Gryffindor changing rooms she was out of breath, and no doubt was the colour of the crimson of the house banner swinging above; she could also feel her hair starting to frizz out of its plait. That didn’t matter, she didn’t need to look for the snitch now, just take a few flying laps to get used to the feeling of being on the pitch again, and give her jellied legs a brief respite.

  
The air whooshed around Arya as she climbed high on her Firebolt, and balanced herself as she took both hands off to untie her hair, feeling it whip around her face as it was released. It felt like freedom again after a whole week of not having time to fly. At her urging the broom darted forward and she pressed herself flat against it, shooting through the stands as if she were trying to outrace someone, before feinting downwards, then shooting back up towards the heavens again. Her needle, she smiled openly, as she urged it forwards again, exiting the pitch to do a lazy circle around Hogwarts itself, diving in-between towers and ducking under bridges. Jon had bought the broom for her, her first broom, on her eleventh nameday, with his first real paycheck from a summer job. “It needs a name” he had said; “All good brooms have names”. And so she had picked needle, because its tail was pointed and smooth and shiny. Less so now, after almost six years of use, but it was still the best broom around, Jon had said, so she kept it. It had helped that she hadn’t grown much since then either, so it hadn’t needed much adjustment.  
The sun had now fully risen in the sky, and signs of life were beginning to show in the castle, so Arya reluctantly descended once again towards the pitch, suddenly starving. She wasn’t alone however, as a figure stood leaning against the outside of the changing rooms looking up towards her, arms crossed. Gendry Waters, she noted, taking in his tousled black hair and broad shoulders with a sinking stomach. Arya slid off her broom in front of him ungracefully, and she knew, with wild hair and pink cheeks from the crisp late summer wind. She looked up at Waters and nodded as she approached, knowing better than to try and start a conversation with the burly beater.

  
“What are you doing up so early?” he asked however, as she was parallel to him and almost through the door. His quidditch captain badge glinted in the sun.  
“Erm, what does it look like? I’m training for the tryouts next week.” She turned towards him. How stupid could he get? Why else would she be up at the crack of dawn? Why did he need to loom over her like some kind of spectre?  
“Didn’t realise you needed to tryout if you were already on the team...” He said, looking just as confused as she felt.  
“But I thought-because of last year…” she stammered, a million thoughts going through her head at once; did this mean he didn’t actually hate her? “Am I still on…?”  
“Of course you’re still on the bloody team, Stark." He looked almost incredulous, as if Arya had grown a second head. “You’re the best seeker the team has had in years! I uh- I need you to come to tryouts anyway though, meet the new recruits and all that.” He paused then, looking at Arya as if he were about to say something, silently taking in her windswept hair and too-big jumper, then nodded brusquely and quickly walked off towards where she had just come, kicking off the ground with a whoosh of his quidditch robes. Arya stood, staring at the place where he had disappeared, stunned into temporary silence at his discourteous exit, before her stomach grumbled and snapped her out of her reverie. Well that was more like the Gendry Waters she knew…

*

Arya had all but forgotten about her strange encounter with the grumpy quidditch captain until she entered the common room one evening after dinner to see him frowning at a potions book propped open on a desk, in the corner away from everyone else. He didn’t look up at her entrance, and she had no particular desire to speak to Waters anyway; if he needed to speak to her about helping at tryouts, he would. Full from a particularly delicious midweek dinner of steak and kidney pie with mounds of buttery mashed potato, Arya collapsed instead into one of the sofas next to the fireplace, soon followed by her dorm mates Dany and Meera, who were in a similar state of too-full-to-move. The struggle up the seemingly hundreds of stairs to the common room had been a feat she did not want to repeat any time soon. The room was just as it always was, warm and comfy with a crackling fire; perfect nap potential. Arya let her eyes flutter closed and listened peacefully to the buzz of conversations around her, thinking vaguely that she really ought to write to her mother soon. That was until Dany and Meera started talking about what animals they had chosen for their Care of Magical Creatures essays “-and you know of course with all the family history and stuff I couldn’t really pick anything else so-”  
“Wait what?”  
“What do you mean ‘What’, Arya? I’ve told you a million times that my family used to raise dragons, didn’t you read that chapter on it in our-” Daenerys was cut off from the beginning of what was bound to be another lecture about not paying enough attention in their History of Magic classes, by Arya jumping upright out of the chair.  
“I forgot to do the bloody essay.” Daenerys looked scandalised; Meera just looked slightly amused. Both were completely unsympathetic to her repeated pleas for help. Daenerys claimed she still had half a book of extra reading to do before their charms class tomorrow, Meera claimed she had only just scraped enough information together to write her own essay, there was no way she was helping do another. Arya had briefly entertained the idea that Sandor might let her off the hook if she was extra nice to him, then came to her senses and realised that he was Professor Clegane when at Hogwarts, not gruff family friend Sandor, who would sneak Dragon Barrel Brandy to her and Sansa at stuffy parties. This was why Arya then found herself changing into her warmest, biggest jumper, and slouching down to the common room past her friends (who admittedly looked at least a little bit sorry for her), headed towards the library. She scowled back at them as she clambered out of the portrait hole.

  
The library was always a sullen place in the evenings, never light or warm enough. Maester Luwin could sometimes be seen shuffling along between the stacks, pulling out books here and there, and hissing at students now and then to be quiet. Morosely, Arya peered through the rows of books, cursing her footwear as she went; the heavy Dr Marten’s boots she had pulled on in a hurry made her usually unobtrusive footsteps loud and clunky. Finding the right section finally, she traced her finger along the line of books, hoping for inspiration; Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Easy Chimaera Care, A History of Grecian Magical Animals in the 17th Century… Nothing she wanted to see right now. Looking upwards, she spotted something more interesting a couple of rows above: “Thestrals; Native Spectres of the Iberian Peninsula”. An interesting animal; well worth an essay, Arya thought, reaching upwards for the book. Except of course, she couldn’t reach. Cursing her height, she tiptoed and just managed to brush the corner of the book with her fingertips before sighing and stepping backwards to grab her wand. Before she could do so however, an arm reached out from behind her, deftly taking the book of the shelf and holding it down towards her. The arm belonged to none other than Aegon Targaryen, who was now looking down at her, clearly amused. “Oh shut up.” Arya whispered, and lightly shoved him in the stomach with the book, before he could begin to make a dig at her height.  
“I didn’t say anything?”  
“You were about to.” She paused, and then looked him up and down. “We’re not all blessed with the height of the Targaryens”  
“Or the famous dashing good looks of them either” Aegon winked and leant against the stack, and closer to Arya. “I’m guessing you forgot to do your essay for Clegane as well then? My sister must be so very disappointed in you.”  
“She’ll be more disappointed in you when I tell her.”  
“You wouldn’t dare.”  
“Help me get some more books down then and I won’t breathe a word.” It was Arya’s turn to grin this time, as she whispered instructions and watched Aegon reach up for a few more textbooks about Thestrals, admiring the way his jumper lifted slightly so she saw a sliver of his toned stomach. She quickly looked away before he could tell, trying to think of anything but the undeniable fact that Aegon had somehow got more attractive over the summer holidays, and grown almost half a foot as well. This was the exact sort of distraction she was trying to avoid; let alone the dilemma she would face if she developed feelings for one of her closest friends, who also happened to be the twin of her _best_ friend, Daenerys. The handsome, pureblood (and it was rumoured, part Veela) Aegon was also, she thought wryly to herself, one of the biggest flirts at the school, and greatly enjoyed the knowledge that he was one of the best looking too. With the signature white blonde Targaryen hair and deep purple eyes, she could see why girls so often seemed to fall under his spell.

  
The pair squeezed into a dimly lit corner where Aegons’ books and parchment were already laid out; unsurprisingly Aegon had also chosen dragons as his topic (“Oh c’mon it’s basically betraying my family heritage if I don’t, right?”) and both begun to scratch away with their quills in companionable silence. After a couple of hours of working, Aegon dramatically put down his quill, sighed loudly, then promptly got up and walked away without a word. Some time later he returned with two steaming mugs in his hands, smelling of rich hot chocolate. “How on earth did you manage to get past Luwin with those?!” Arya gratefully took the mug he offered her with both hands and breathed in deeply. “Magic.” He winked, chuckling at his own joke. He then looked around and pulled a small silver flask out of his bag, pouring a shot of amber liquid into his own mug, before offering it to Arya. “Firewhisky.” He explained; “Warms you up.” Never one to say no to being warm, or doing something not allowed, Arya eagerly accepted. She took a sip and immediately felt colour rising to her cheeks, and warmth returning to her stiff fingers and toes.  
Every now and then Arya would pause to push stray wavy hairs out of her eyes or measure how much she had written, earning a small smile from the blonde opposite her. “What?” She finally whispered after several times of it happening.  
“Nothing. I’m not allowed to smile at you?”  
“No.”  
“Ok sorry.” He smiled and looked back down at his work again. Arya couldn’t help but smile too this time. Must have been the firewhisky.

  
Finally, after hours of writing and a severe case of hand cramp, the pair were finished, and shoved books, quills and parchment back into bags with the resignation of students who knew they were not going to get a full eight hours sleep that night. The pair was silent as they walked slowly back up towards the Gryffindor tower, and Arya had the sense that Aegon was on the verge of asking her something. Before she could speak herself, a clock chimed midnight somewhere as they approached the fourth floor corridor. They were now past curfew. Without saying anything, the pair looked at each other and simultaneously started sprinting towards the common room at full pelt; getting caught out of house after midnight was not something they wanted to happen so soon into their sixth year- definitely not after they had both consumed alcohol on school grounds. Catelyn Stark would probably disown her if she found out. Arya still shuddered sometimes when thinking about the howler she had received from her mother in her fourth year. She silently cursed herself for not bringing along the enchanted map that Jon had gifted to her; it would be just her luck to get caught the one time she didn’t have it on her.

  
“Sentinel Stand!” Arya breathlessly shouted at the fat lady, earning a disgruntled mumble before the portrait swung open and admitted the disheveled pair, panting heavily after their sprint. Aegon, theatrical as ever, flung himself onto the nearest sofa, breathing heavily to catch his breath. Arya suppressed a snicker, caught her own breath, and held out a hand to help the melodramatic Targaryen up. He took it gladly, springing upright to stand flush against Arya, grinning down at her. They were still holding hands. Another hand pushed back a curl from her face, grazing her cheek slightly; it burned. Arya suddenly felt very hot; and Aegon was suddenly very close, and very tempting. Was this firewhisky or was it something else? Aegon looked as though he was unsure too, and opened his mouth as if to speak but was interrupted by a book falling to the floor in the corner of the room. Startled, Arya jumped backwards slightly as Gendry Waters stood up from the table in the corner of the common room, the potions book he had been studying hours ago tucked under his arm. It seems as though they hadn’t been the only ones doing last minute homework. Gendry looked, if possible, surlier than ever, and Arya wondered if they had woken him up from an accidental nap by bursting into the room at lightning speed. Before she could fully process this however, he had scowled at them one last time and walked up towards the boys’ dormitories. “What a delightful chap.” Aegon whispered in her ear as he left too, earning a wry smile from Arya, who knew this moment would come back to haunt her next time she was with Gendry at tryouts. She was curled up in her four poster minutes later, trying not to think about the way it had burned when Aegon had touched her.

The next morning Arya emerged down into the unusually bustling common room bleary-eyed, and with hair that seemed to defy all laws of gravity. She slumped into an armchair by the fireplace, yawning as she attempted her tie and shoelaces. Sansa slid into vision, wearing a disapproving look that was unerringly close to the one their mother wore when telling Arya off for something. Her head girl badge gleamed in the light streaming through the high windows and she didn’t have a hair out of place, her long copper waves pulled back into a respectable ponytail.  
“You look dreadful.”  
“Thankyou. I try my best.” No verbal response, just a stern look again. “I was up late writing an essay that I forgot about, okay?”  
“Oh Arya, we’ve barely been back two weeks! Are you even using the homework diary I got you?!”  
“Yes.” She was a terrible liar, and knew she had been found out immediately. The stern look got worse. Maybe it was the eyebrows. They moved in an angry way somehow? Whilst she was vaguely thinking about Sansa’s angry eyebrows and trying to blink some tiredness out of her eyes, Arya became aware that the common room was so busy because people were crowded around something on the noticeboard.  
“Wait, what’s going on?”  
Sansa sighed, realising Arya hadn’t been paying attention at all. “There’s been a notice about a special feast this weekend- we’re to wear our uniforms, sit in our houses and everyone has to attend. I’ve got a meeting about it later with Professor Mormont and the prefects. I suppose we’ll find out more about it then.” Intriguing.  
“You’ll tell me what it’s about?” Arya asked, for the first time in her life wishing she had been given prefect status to find out more about this mystery feast. Things like this were unusual at this point in the year. They’d only just had the welcome feast, Halloween was ages away, and to her knowledge there was no special wizarding holiday any time soon either.  
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to Arya. It might be on a need-to-know basis.” Sansa stood up, clearly revelling that she was important enough to be in this special need-to-know nerd club. “Anyway, I’ll see you later; I said I’d have breakfast with Jeyne this morning. Do make sure you write to mother soon.” And with that she was gone, with a flick of hair and a waft of flowery perfume.

  
Arya sat and stared at the wall for a few moments pondering the mystery feast before slinging her battered bag over her shoulder and heading down to breakfast. Two rounds of marmalade on toast and some black coffee later and she was starting to feel a bit more alive. She was halfway through proofreading her hastily written Care of Magical Creatures essay when she realised that a certain grumpy beater had sat down opposite her and was helping himself to bacon and eggs, looking as tired and defeated as she felt. It was only then that she recalled disturbing him last night in the common room. Stealing a furtive glance across at him whilst she continued to read and started on her third round of toast, she pondered whether to say sorry-just in case he harboured some resentment and had reconsidered her place on the team again this year.

  
“Get dressed in the dark this morning, Stark?” he suddenly quipped, still not taking his eyes off his breakfast. He was now reaching across for her pot of coffee, which she pushed towards him slightly, stalling for words as she met his dark eyes. She didn’t come up with any, shocked that he’d started a conversation with her for the second time in a week, let alone dared mention the fact that she looked like a walking scarecrow. This must have reflected in her face before she could mask it however, as Gendry quickly backtracked. “I didn’t mean…I just meant, you know, your tie is on backwards…somehow…” he trailed off and back to his food, as Arya looked downwards-her tie was indeed on backwards. Bugger it. Sansa hadn’t said a thing, the snake.  
“Oh…” Witty, Arya, real witty. “I’m a bit tired, after…” she trailed off, omitting the details of the late night essay writing, the firewhisky, and weird moment between her and Aegon in the common room. Bloody hell she’d forgotten about that too. She pushed back a stray curl that had made its way in front of her eyes then paused, remembering Aegon doing the same thing the night before. Suddenly, a bench scraped across the stone floor and Gendry stood up, leaving cutlery clattering to his plate, food unfinished. “Tryouts at eight am sharp on Sunday, Stark. Be there earlier to help out.” he said gruffly, before grabbing his bag and robes and making a quick exit. What the hell had just happened?

*

Sunday came bright and early, and Arya was up at the crack of dawn again, determined to get in a long run before tryouts, which she had also planned on being early to. It would not do to get on the wrong side of Waters this early on in the school year, even if she had already been given a place on the team. She hastily pulled on clothes in the dark, same as last week; ending up dressed in a dizzying mixture of tie dye patterned muggle cycle shorts, dirty black converse and an oversized Gryffindor quidditch jersey that had once belonged to her father some thirty years ago. The jersey fell down almost to her knees and was faded and worn-but it was one of the comfiest things she owned; whether through memories or soft cotton from years and years of washing spells, she could not say. Arya wasn’t sure she actually owned many things that fit her properly, now she really thought about it. Everything was either inherited, “borrowed” from an unwitting older brother, or from a friend. It wasn’t like the Stark family fortune couldn’t stretch to buying new clothes-she knew she was lucky enough to have whatever she wanted, if she only asked, but preferred to live in the clothes that had once belonged to people she loved. It made being apart from them all that much easier. She pulled a maroon beanie hat on over her messy hair and started her long walk down through the castle.

  
Another jog around the perimeter of the grounds, culminating in a sprint on the final stretch of the journey found her at the quidditch pitch, panting for breath and red faced. Thankfully there was no gruff captain here yet to raise an eyebrow at her disheveled appearance, she thought as she started stretching out her calves in the Gryffindor changing rooms. When her stretching was done, Arya confidently walked over to the broom cupboard and went to grab her Firebolt from its usual slot among the training brooms, only to remember with a defeated sigh that she had left it in her dormitory after a broom service earlier in the week. Shit. There was no way she’d be able to walk back to Gryffindor tower and retrieve it before tryouts started, it was already half past seven and Waters had wanted her early before people started arriving. She now had two options: use one of the terrible training brooms reserved in the cupboard for newcomers and first years; or attempt to summon the broom from her room. The first option was downright unappealing and would severely affect her flying, but the second was risky. If the accio charm even worked (which she wasn’t confident it would), it was just her luck that her rapidly accelerating broom would take out a first-year, or destroy a precious portrait on its way round the school grounds. After a few seconds hesitation (Arya wasn’t known for her well-rounded decision making) she was out on the pitch again, eyes closed, wand out, concentrating hard on the broom resting up against her four poster in Gryffindor common room. She hoped to the gods that a window had been left open in the dormitory. It was way too early on in the year to be on the receiving end of a lecture from her head of house about destruction of school property, she thought with a shudder, recalling the last run-in she’d had with Professor Dondarrion about the flaming bookcase.

  
Concentrating hard, with eyes squeezed tightly shut, she muttered “Accio” underneath her breath and performed the correct wand movements over and over, picturing the newly-polished broom heading out the window and through the crisp morning air towards her. A few seconds passed. Nothing. “Accio.” She said again, more forcefully this time, pouring her concentration into the spell. Still, nothing. She’d never attempted to summon something from this far away before, but it was possible. She’d seen other people do it, only older family members and teachers, sure; but if they could do it why couldn’t she? One more time, she thought, this time pouring all her thoughts into a non-verbal spell, figuring that might make it more concentrated, somehow. Non-verbals were meant to be more complicated supposedly, but Arya found them less hassle sometimes; it was easier to focus on the spell when you didn’t have to verbalise it as well. A few seconds passed; nothing again. Arya then became aware that her closed eyes and concentration had all but blocked out the attempts of someone to get her attention. Gendry Waters was standing in front of her outstretched wand, looking half bemused, half angry that she hadn’t been paying attention to what he had clearly been saying several seconds ago. The sight was so funny that she barely had time to register the Firebolt rocketing towards them both before she tackled him to the floor, feeling her hair brushed backwards by the force of a broom going at one hundred miles an hour, before skidding to a stop outside the changing rooms and hovering a few feet off the ground, looking innocent.

“Ouch.” He winced, as Arya tried as gracefully as she could to detangle herself from his limbs, trying not to notice how she had felt his muscles underneath his jersey.  
“Shit, Waters, are you okay? I’m so sorry I didn’t realise it had actually worked, I-”  
“That was a nonverbal spell.” His statement cut through her hasty apology. It felt slightly accusatory.  
“I was just trying to get my broom from the tower. I didn’t- I didn’t realise it would work…” she trailed off, pushing herself across the ground and away from the boy now frowning at her from underneath a mop of messy black hair, dotted with grass.  
“That’s advanced magic.” He said; another statement. Still the same slightly accusatory look. Arya wasn’t sure whether to defend herself or not- or whether to say sorry for knocking her quidditch captain to the ground after almost slicing him in two with her broomstick. “That must have travelled over a mile to get here. Where did you learn how to do that?” he asked next, standing up and offering a hand to her automatically, without taking his piercing blue eyes off hers. What the hell was happening? Arya was sure she was going to get kicked off the team now before they’d even had a game. Was there precedent for this? Could she be penalised for almost killing her captain with a summoning spell gone wrong?  
“I didn’t… I mean I’ve seen people do it before so I just figured I would try. My brother Jon taught me some nonverbal spells but not that one. I guess it still needs a bit of practice...” she shrugged, acutely aware that their hands were still grasped together from the act of him pulling her to her feet. Her hand felt tiny in his, enveloped by fingers roughened by the constant use of a beaters bat. His mouth opened as if to say something else but closed again quickly and her hand was suddenly dropped as a gaggle of third years toting brooms walked round the corner of the northern spectators stand. Gendry muttered something about collecting the practice balls and swiftly stalked towards the changing rooms also, leaving Arya in a state of shock and confusion for the third time in a week, before returning and giving her the task of sorting out groups of keen Gryffindor’s into teams for tryouts. She barely had time to think about her successful (if a touch aggressive) nonverbal summoning spell until hours later, when well away from the pitch, and well away from a certain quidditch captain.


	2. Chapter 2

The Great Hall was buzzing with anticipation already as Arya walked in to join her fellow Gryffindors, still miffed that she’d been subjected to a lecture from Sansa about the importance of a properly worn uniform for the feast, and yes that meant robes too. They had almost got into a shouting match in the middle of the common room about the dress code and her various violations of it, before Arya had given up and went to change out of her muddy converse, and put on muddy doc martens instead, as well as her school cloak. Arya did love her sister, but sometimes she really did want to hex her and shove her in a cupboard until the jinx wore off, and this was one of those days. Spotting Sansa seated at the far end of the long table, Arya veered off sharply towards the other end, ruffling Bran’s tawny hair as she passed the Ravenclaw table, earning her a glare from the precocious fourth year. Finally spotting someone she could sit next to, Arya squeezed her way in-between Aegon and Daario Naharis, before they were all silenced by Professor Mormont taking the podium at the front of the Great Hall. He gazed sternly out into the sea of students, still cutting an imposing figure despite his age, his pet raven perched upon his left shoulder. The old man had once been a ranger with the Nights Watch, the advanced Auror programme that had fought in the first wizarding war, before retiring from the service and taking up the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, and for this he had Arya’s utmost respect. Now of course Mormont was too old to remain teaching such an active class, but was rumoured to occasionally teach certain topics at NEWT level; without warning the students would enter the class expecting Professor Tarth (who was a badass in her own right, Arya thought), and find the old bear instead.

“Welcome to you all on this fine evening. I expect you are all eager to find out what exciting news we have for you...I hear that speculation on the matter has been rife.” Mormont paused, surveying the room again, now with a smile that caused his eyes to crease at the corners. “I especially liked the one I overheard from young Mr Tyrell that we were choosing to reintroduce broomstick jousting.” A chorus of laughs arose from the Hufflepuff table, at the expense of Loras who was now blushing furiously. “Sadly, not on this occasion. However, we have someone arriving shortly who will be happy to tell all. I’m afraid that until then you will have to speculate wildly some more whilst you enjoy this magnificent feast!” And with that, platters and heaped bowls of food appeared along all the tables, Mormont sat down, and the hall descended into a bustle of chatter and clattering cutlery. Arya hadn’t eaten at all that day since she had missed both breakfast and lunch due to tryouts, and eagerly reached forward to begin ladling roast potatoes and parsnips onto her plate. Hogwarts feasts were truly a beautiful thing to behold. The house elves seemed to outdo themselves every single time. That reminded her; she must go and visit Hotpie and Lommy sometime soon. Chewing through her first glorious mouthful of roast pork and mentally penning in a visit to see her two favourite house elves, she tuned in to the wild speculation that students were indeed, partaking in.

“Special guest? Who do you think that is then?”

“Well it all depends on what the actual thing is, doesn’t it-”

“-he didn’t reveal much did he?”

“He didn’t bloody reveal anything!”

“Has anything like this happened before?”

“Not when I’ve been here and-”

“-and you’ve been here as long as I have, you idiot!”

Arya rolled her eyes at the back and forth between all the students around her, cursing herself for being unable to force the information out of Sansa the other day. The head girl definitely knew, and a quick peek up at the end of the table to where she was seated with Jeyne and a few other prefects showed that she was most definitely keeping her mouth shut still. Her ability to remain serene and impassive under pressure was quite impressive, Arya had to admit; even if she was still furious at her sister for treating her like a first year earlier. Arya herself was quick to anger, terrible at masking her facial expressions, and a dreadful liar. It was, she thought, one of the reasons why she got into trouble so much (most likely the reason she was caught so much), and why she was always being compared to her older brothers. The twin double act had been in and out of Mormonts’ office so much in their time here that Jon had confided in her the existence of an entire cabinet dedicated to holding just their detention slips. They had both left at the end of Arya’s second year; Jon to Romania to study dragons, and Robb to work at the Ministry, ironically in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Also ironically, as Jon seemed to enjoy pointing out, Arya was perfectly capable of _not_ getting caught when she wanted to, and was able to sneak around as quiet as a ghost; she just didn’t often think far enough ahead to do so. After her father’s death half way through her second year, she had been unable to sleep more than a couple of hours every night, so instead had taken to slipping out of the dormitory and exploring the castle instead. The nocturnal exploring had meant she had discovered places in the castle she was sure very few others knew existed, and was able to get there almost silently, too. The addition of the Marauders Map had helped enormously also, a secret map that Robb, Theon and Jon had discovered whilst in their fifth year, enchanted to show the whereabouts of every student and teacher in the castle, as well as every secret passage, hidden doorway and clandestine staircase. As Jon had explained when presenting her with the invaluable map, they wanted it to go to someone that would use it for “good”-meaning they wanted it to go to someone who would use it to break the rules; meaning most definitely not Sansa. Arya had most definitely used it for her brothers’ idea of good, and the only other people aware of its existence were Daenerys and Meera, who she wouldn’t be able to hide it from even if she had tried. The map had helped her out of (and into) several tricky situations over her years at the school, but she’d never once lost or had it confiscated, thank the gods- she thought her brothers would disown her if that were the case.

Before long, dessert was served and Arya was joining in the speculation chatter with everyone else when she noticed a sudden hush had fallen among the Great Hall. Aegon, who had been in the process of stealing a spoonful of steaming treacle sponge from Arya’s plate, froze; his eyes fixed upon the far end of the hall that held the teachers table. She whipped around, scanning the stage for sign of the “special guest” Mormont had spoken of, and found him-or rather them, almost instantly, walking alongside Professor Tarth. The first man was young, with jet black hair, an easy smile; and-Arya could see from here, was very handsome. He had a confident swagger to his walk and something about him was very familiar, though Arya couldn’t quite place why. She turned to the next man, almost the opposite to his companion; whereas the man before had been young, fit and cheerful, this man was bald, overweight and dressed in intricately patterned robes that were reminiscent of the free cities. He looked around the Great Hall as though taking in as much of it as he could, for analysis later.

“Isn’t that Renly Baratheon? Player for the Devils?” Alys Karstark quietly hissed from across the table, trying not to break the silence that had fallen over the hall at the entrance of the two newcomers. “Ex-Player.” Daario corrected, craning his neck for a better glimpse. “Retired now, thought he was working for the ministry or something…” Of course, Arya realised, turning away from Aegon to look back at Baratheon. Of course she recognised him! She’d seen him every time she went into Rickon’s room- his face grinning down at her in poster form, sporting the striped mustard and black jersey of the Dragonstone Devils and throwing a quaffle up in the air. But that wasn’t the only reason- he’d also been at the funeral of her father four years ago, and the year before that, she’d seen him at the funeral of his own brother, the Minister For Magic; Robert Baratheon. At her father’s funeral he’d taken her and Rickon aside and produced a miniature quaffle for them to throw around, whilst the older boys and their mother spoke to politicians and other family members. Arya didn’t like to think of that day often, or the weeks that succeeded it. She distinctly remembered the feeling of wanting to both cry and kick something at the same time. She wondered if he would remember her to see her face now, four years later.

Mormont didn’t need to call for silence again; the Great Hall was so quiet you could hear a pin drop anyway. Instead, he stepped up to the great podium at the front of the stage and motioned for the men to follow suit. “As promised; our special guests. May I introduce to you Mr Renly Baratheon, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and Mr Rugen Varys, Head of the Department of International Magical Co-Operation” Arya, along with most other students, was now thoroughly confused and intrigued. What were two men with such senior positions at the ministry doing at Hogwarts? Daario seemed to voice her thoughts exactly, as he turned round and mouthed “What the fuck?” before swivelling quickly back again, eyes glued to the stage like everyone else. Renly Baratheon stepped up to the podium just vacated by Mormont, nodding at the rapt audience of students with a knowing playful grin before beginning.

“Good Evening all. Well, I suppose I’ll get right down to it. This year you are all lucky enough to witness Hogwarts playing host to a legendary event: The Triwizard Tournament.” At this, there was collective sharp intake of breath in the hall, followed by shushing from several other students. “During this tournament, a single student will get to represent his or her school in a series of magical tasks. Eternal glory awaits the student who wins the tournament.” Baratheon paused, seemingly for dramatic effect; it was not needed. The entire hall had been stunned into silence by his words. His mouth twitched at the corners. “For those of you that have never heard of this ancient competition; The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago, as a friendly competition between the three largest wizarding schools of Westeros and Essos – Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the Tournament once every five years and it was generally agreed to be an excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities – until erm, the death toll mounted so high that the Tournament was discontinued.” He paused again, and once again his mouth twitched at the corners after surveying the hall of normally rowdy students, stunned into total silence. “Over the centuries there have been several attempts to reinstate the tournament, none of which have been successful. Now however our departments-” he motioned to himself and Varys “-have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked tirelessly over the summer to ensure that, this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger. The Champion selections will be just over a month from now, on Halloween night. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand galleons of personal prize money. I will now pass you over to Mr Varys, who will explain the minutia and any legal ramifications of the tournament to you.” Varys then took the podium, with Renly Baratheon retiring to a seat adjacent to Professor Tarth. The usually stoic professor looked rather flushed as he leant over and whispered something to her.

“Eager though I know many of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” He began, in a soft voice, “the heads of the participating schools, along with the ministry of magic, have agreed to impose an agreed restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age-that is to say, seventeen or older- will be allowed to put their names forward for consideration. This-” Varys had to raise his voice slightly here, as several students had let out noises of outrage at these last words “-is a measure that we feel is necessary, given that the tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is unlikely that anyone below NEWT level will be able to perform magic capable of undertaking these tasks.” With this, Varys also departed the podium and was seated, as once more Mormont took to the stage, speaking loudly over the whispers and mutterings that had started to ripple through the hall at the words of the two men. “A word of warning: I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion. I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are below seventeen. The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive in under a week; I expect every courtesy to be extended to our foreign guests for their stay here, as well as full support for whoever is named our Hogwarts champion. And now, it is late, and I expect you are all eager to be alert and well-rested for your lessons tomorrow. Goodnight!”

At Mormonts final words, the hall seemed to erupt in a great scraping and banging of chairs and conversations; declarations of students that they will be the champion of Hogwarts, speculation about the delegations from the two others schools, and lots of disappointed grumbling from students who did not quite reach the proposed age restriction, Arya included. Her birthday wasn’t until July, absolutely months away. Lucky Aegon had turned seventeen on the first of September, along with Daenerys; Daario cheerfully announced that he would be seventeen the week before Halloween as well. All the way back to the fifth floor she engaged in heated debate with Aegon and Daario about what the tasks could be, until Daario peeled off for a “very important meeting” that Arya knew was definitely code for snogging some girl in a broom cupboard somewhere.

“Who do you reckon the impartial judge could be?” Arya wondered out loud, ducking through a tapestry that Aegon was holding aloft for her.

“Dunno. Someone from the ministry, maybe. It’s them you’ll have to fool if you want to enter.”

“Mormont knows I’m not of age though...”

“Yeah, but he’s not the one that decides the champion is he?” Aegon leaned in conspiratorially, making sure there was no one else in the corridor before continuing. “Sounds to me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, he’ll pick the best from each school- nevermind how old they are. Once you’re picked you’re picked, right? They can’t go back on their word.” She sighed and leant with her back up against the rough stone wall, considering her options. Aegon then approached and loomed over her, palm resting on the stone above, suddenly serious; “Arya, you’re the best at potions there is; you could easily whip up some ageing potion in the next couple of weeks. Few drops of that should do it, easy! Fool the judge before it wears off and you’re set.” His scheme sounded doable, she had to admit. There was even a possibility that it could actually work, as long as the impartial judge wasn’t Renly Baratheon or someone else that may know her age. Aegon, bare inches from her face now, had seen the flicker of hope; “I’ll even help you if you want?”

“Aegon, the last thing I want your help with is brewing a potion. Remember third year when you almost killed me by forgetting the bezoar in my poison antidote?”

“It’s an easy mistake.”

“It’s literally the key ingredient.”

“That was one time though.” He defended himself, pretending to look hurt.

“Once is too many times to be poisoned, my friend.”

“I said sorry? I think I even wrote to your mum to apologise too.”

“Yeah, another death in the family was all she needed…” Arya trailed off, annoyed that she’d somehow lured herself into the trap of thinking about those dark times. She looked down, scraping the side of her boot with the toe of the other, leaving flakes of pale mud on the floor, trying to blink rapidly to get rid of tears that threatened to well up. She was thankful for the poorly lit corridor, and that they weren’t standing very close to any of the braziers that lined the walls. There was an awkward silence between the two. Friends for years, neither had really attempted to delve deep into the shared trauma of dead family members too much. She could tell that Aegon was still standing close to her though, arm resting on the stone above her head, as his breath was fanning across the top of her hair. “I never asked,” he started “and you don’t have to answer obviously but, that essay the other day-the Thestral one… can you actually…” She knew what he was trying to ask, in his awkward Aegon way- so smooth when talking to girls but when trying to ask if she’d ever _seen_ anyone die; his bravado went completely out the window.

“Yes I can see them.” She saved him from his flustered enquiring. “Dad…It happened at the dinner table. Heart attack, apparently. We can all see them now; Jon, Robb, Sansa, Bran…Rickon will be able to as well I suppose…” She blinked, a single tear rolled down her cheek.

“Me too.” He whispered, closer than before, almost touching now. Arya felt a confusing and simultaneous mixture of grief over her father, and thrill over being so dangerously close to someone she’d definitely had a small infatuation with for as long as she could remember, someone that smelt like wood smoke and dark chocolate. “Viserys…” He didn’t need to say any more, Arya knew the story. Hell, most people in the wizarding world knew the story of the oldest Targaryen sibling, and how he’d descended into madness after the death of his grandfather and parents. Arya couldn’t begin to imagine what it would have been like to see your own brother set fire to himself before your very eyes. Daenerys had never talked about it, and she hadn’t wanted to ask.

Arya finally looked up to see that tears had brimmed in Aegons eyes too, turning them into glassy violet orbs. He smiled weakly, a smile she felt herself returning in the same way. What a pair they must look like, standing in a dark corridor crying together. When she voiced this to Aegon he let out a little sobbing laugh and then smiled in earnest, hastily brushing the tears away with the back of his sleeve. Everything happened quite quickly then; one second Aegon was still leaning over her, the next their lips were pressed together and his floppy hair was brushing her forehead. A second passed. He pulled away as quickly as he had moved forward, looking slightly shocked at his own actions.

“Arya I’m sorry, I don’t know-” She didn’t know if it was the rare display of real emotion from the boy, or the shared trauma, or just how he looked bathed in flickering torchlight, but Arya needed to kiss Aegon again, _now_. She pulled him down towards her again, and to her relief he reciprocated the kissing and pulling and pressing with as much eagerness as her. His hand pushed through her hair, the other round her waist, and pulled her close, trapping her between him and the cold stone wall. Wow, she thought, breathing in woodsmoke again, and tiptoeing to lean into the kiss even more. What an unexpected turn of events. So much for no distractions this year.

*

A while later, and Arya was just situated in bed, scrubbed and pink from her night-time shower when Daenerys walked in, still dressed in uniform and looking slightly rumpled. Very unusual for the bookish prefect to be up late on a school night, Arya noted as the girl tiptoed into the dormitory and silently waved, careful not to wake any other already sleeping occupants.

“Where have you been?”

“Library. Reading up on the tournament.” She whispered back, rifling through her drawers and pulling out her own washing things. Arya noted with a secret smile that Daenerys used the same vanilla and wood smoke scented soap that Aegon must use.

“Are you going to enter?”

“I’m not sure.” The blonde answered back, looking thoughtful. “Lots of people have died…” she trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. Wise beyond her years, Daenerys wouldn’t want her grandmother to be put through any more unnecessary family deaths, just as Arya wouldn’t want her mother to either- the main reason on her list of “cons” to entering the tournament, when compiling a mental list in the shower.

“Speak about it tomorrow?” Arya whispered, reaching for the crimson curtains around her four-poster. Today had been long and exhausting and confusing. She’d almost killed Gendry Waters with an aggressive summoning spell on her broomstick, had to tackle aforementioned quidditch captain to the ground to avoid his imminent death, _and_ had a furious half an hour crying/kissing session with one of her closest friends. That was without even mentioning the revelation of the Triwizard Tournament.

“Speak tomorrow. Oh and Arya?”

“Yes?”

“You have a hickey on your neck.” Daenerys said matter-of-factly, swishing out of the room in a towel.

Bugger.


	3. Chapter 3

The next week passed in a frenzied blur of assignments, late night studying and almost constant speculation and boasting from students about how they would spend the prize money after they won the tournament. Joffrey Baratheon could be seen (and heard) holding court at the clock tower courtyard daily, leaning confidently against the central bench and bragging to other Slytherins about how he had been in the know about the tournament months ago, because of his family connections at the ministry. Arya very much doubted that the minister for magic had told his grandson anything about the tournament at all, and couldn’t help but fantasise about punching him in his smarmy little face every time she had to witness such a blatant falsehood. After several days of bearing witness to his conceited storytime routine, she’d come very close to launching a bat bogey hex at his turned back, before being blocked off by Daenerys giving her a stern look. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’ll get into so much trouble!” The prefect had admonished, staring Arya down until she had sheathed her wand safely away in the pocket of her robes. “Yeah at least wait until he’s facing this way, Arya,” Aegon had chimed in, “Don’t deny me the experience of seeing his face as it hits him square between the eyes.” He winked and moved past quickly; avoiding the killer glare that his twin sister had sent his way, looking every bit the fire-blooded Targaryen she was.

Arya had barely had a spare second to speak to Aegon about their moment in the corridor, almost a whole week ago. Both sixth years were too preoccupied with the mountains of essays and reading they had been set by their professors as a perverse “welcome back” gift, to say more than a few words to each other since then. It wasn’t through lack of trying-but every time the pair managed to end up alone together, they were interrupted within moments by some naive friend or family member. Daenerys didn’t seem to suspect a thing thankfully, already snowed under from all the extra reading she had taken it upon herself to do, in addition to being the only sixth year to take advanced history of magic and ancient runes. Thankfully Sandor had deemed their last-minute Care of Magical Creatures essays as acceptable, and both Aegon and Arya had received higher than average marks for what was essentially a few hours’ worth of frantic reading and scribbling whatever looked interesting. Meanwhile Professor Pycelle, the ghost who taught History of Magic, had them writing weekly essays on the age of heroes. Professor Lannister had set them two extra texts to read in preparation for their upcoming charms module on nonverbal spells, on top of their usual textbook and weekly essay. Even the usually lenient Professor Wolkan was adding to their workload, and was expecting a three thousand word essay on the practical applications of one of the most incredibly boring plants known to wizardkind: sneezewort. Professor Martell meanwhile was forcing them to research the creation of specific poison antidotes. This homework was being taken most seriously by the sixth years, as he had hinted that he would be poisoning one of them for real before Christmas, to check that their antidote worked. She was glad she would be working alone for this project. Potions was something she excelled in, and she wholeheartedly believed that Martell would stick to his word when it came to the random poisoning; you didn’t earn a nickname like the ‘Red Viper’ for no reason.

Meera had tried only slightly harder than Daenerys to coax an answer out of Arya as to who had given her the purple bruise that bloomed on her neck, before becoming resigned to her stubborn refusal of information, and instead helped her look up cosmetic spells to cover it up. Having found a suitable concealment spell, Meera had then taken it upon herself to ignore their mountain of work and instead experiment with other magical cosmetic procedures; by the end of the week succeeding in magically transforming her hair from its usual dark brown, to a brilliant seafoam green. Impressed with the results of this, she had gone one step further and tinted her eyebrows the same colour, ultimately culminating in her being collared in the Charms corridor the next day by Professor Lannister, who explained that whilst her new look was “delightful”, he would unfortunately have to help her reverse it before the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrived that evening.

Watching Meera led away by the diminutive Professor, Arya sighed and peered outside at the early autumn sunshine, suddenly faced with the prospect of a whole free Friday afternoon to herself. She should probably spend the time wisely and do something productive like finish off her dull Herbology essay, she supposed, still gazing longingly outside. The corner of a quidditch spectator stand was teasing her however, just about visible from the vantage point at the window. She had trained twice already this week; Waters had the new team working hard in preparation for their first match against Slytherin in mid-October, and had kept them out for hours, running drills on the smaller training pitch rather than the real thing, to ensure that no-one from the Slytherin team could see the new line-up. Arya felt that he was being overly cautious, and would have liked to mention to Gendry that she didn’t actually think anyone from the Slytherin team was _smart_ enough to think of spying on another team to determine tactics; but she was still slightly scared of the gruff beater and so hadn’t dared say a thing. In any case, Alys Karstark was proving to be a competent new addition to the team, working well with other chasers Meera and Lyanna Mormont who had both made the cut again, narrowly beating out competition from Obara Sand, who had thrown a tantrum (and her broom) when told she hadn’t made it back for another year. Gendry had stared her down with an impressively hard glare, Arya had thought. To everyone’s surprise, skinny bookworm and seventh year prefect Satin Black had aced his tryout and was now their new keeper, proving that looks really can be deceiving, and Daario rounded the team out again as their second beater. It was a good team, Arya thought, hopefully good enough to win the quidditch cup this year, too. She just needed to make sure she didn’t get mangled by an enchanted tree again. And perfect her Forel Feint manoeuvre…

Her quidditch daydream was cut short by a tapestry being pulled aside at the far end of the corridor and producing some Hufflepuff fourth-years from the stairs within, tailed by Daario and Aegon. Aegon slowed slightly upon noticing Arya, producing a scrap of parchment and tapping it with his wand furtively, before folding it into some sort of triangular shape. The pair walked past, exchanging quick smiles and nods in greeting before disappearing round the curve of the corridor, leaving only echoing voices as they got further away. Arya walked in the other direction and waited until she was sure she was alone before unfurling the paper aeroplane that Aegon had glided into her hand, unseen by the others. On the parchment, in scrawling red ink it said;

‘Herbology Tower, 6pm. Bring Snacks.’

Arya knew she’d _definitley_ be too restless now to sit in the library for hours and write about the inflammatory properties of the sneezewort flower, so instead raced off to change into her training gear. She figured that an hour or two of hard flying would serve the dual purpose of getting her fit for their first match, and give her time to figure out how exactly she felt about Aegon. And what the hell she was going to do about it when she did.

*

At quarter to six Arya found herself in the kitchens, thoroughly worn out from training and starving hungry. Intending to speak to Hotpie and Lommy and potentially snag some Aegon-approved snacks on the way out, she’d instead been forced at spatula-point to sit down at the fireplace and tell the two house-elves how her summer had been, whilst being plied with endless cups of tea and toast. At this rate, she was so full that she wasn’t going to be able to stand up again, let alone eat a meal later tonight. The dinner itself was being prepared by a small army of house elves as she watched; Hotpie and Lommy had been working on some kind of sweet pastries that she’d never seen before, and the smell of spices and exotic peppers filled the cavernous kitchen. Curries were not the usual fare for Hogwarts, so Arya could only assume that the food was being cooked especially to impress their guests tonight, due to arrive in a short while. Eventually extracting herself from the two excitable house elves with promises of returning soon, and with robe pockets stuffed full of pastries, she headed towards the Herbology Tower to meet Aegon. 

He was already there when she arrived, sitting on the large window ledge, his floppy platinum hair gleaming in the setting evening sun and feet poking out of the open window that had excellent views over the viaduct, greenhouses and lake. Most of the school was already gathered below in the courtyard or standing on the viaduct itself, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the rival schools. He turned his body and grinned at her as she joined him on the ledge, seemingly impressed with his own choice of viewing platform.

“Pretty good view if I say so myself” he said smugly, leaning back against the frame and taking one of the pastries she offered. Arya mirrored his actions so that she was facing half outside, half towards Aegon and began nibbling on a pastry herself, despite having just consumed half a load of bread’s worth of toast. She found that she always had room for more food.

“It’s ok I guess.” She deadpanned, before grinning. “How did you find this place? You’ve never told me about it before.” As a general rule, secret places and new shortcuts were always shared between Aegon and Arya, friends first and foremost as a result of their love for causing mischief and breaking rules. Of course, she did keep some secrets- Jon and Robb would never forgive her if she told any more people about the map, even if it was just Aegon.

“Ah, been coming up here for ages. Daario showed it to me back in third year” he spoke through a mouthful of flaky pastry. “Oh gods these are good!” He moaned, taking another and almost inhaling it before carrying on. “He always has his ‘meetings’ up here because there aren’t any portraits.” He drew quotation marks with his hands, not needing to explain any further. Suddenly Arya was more cautious about touching surfaces in the room, not wanting to imagine how many girls Daario had brought up here. Did Aegon use the tower for that purpose too? She stopped herself from asking, not sure she actually wanted to know that, either.

“Nearly six. How do you reckon they’re arriving?” She asked, instead, glancing at her watch.

“The train, maybe? Broomsticks?”

“Nah, way too far to fly… imagine how bloody cold they’d get.”

“True. Would be a proper pain in the arse, too.” Aegon chuckled at his own joke. “What about apparation? Maybe they can do it before they’re seventeen there?”

“Nah, you can’t apparate inside Hogwarts grounds, everyone knows that. Didn’t you ever read ‘Hogwarts: A History’?”

“Of course not!”

“Dany must be _so_ disappointed in you.”

“She is. And it is a heavy burden I shall just have to bear, because I’m never reading that boring bloody book. You’ve never read it either, you hypocrite…”

“I read it once for clues about the secret passageways.”

“Not so secret if they’re in a published book though, are they?” He quipped back, grinning.

They finished up the pastries in silence, scanning the slowly darkening skies for any sign of the mysterious visitors. Aegon shifted so that their bodies were touching, pulling his cloak around them both, arm resting on Arya’s shoulder. “I would conjure a fire but someone might see the light…” he offered as an unprompted explanation. Arya was just happy to be warm and huddled up close to him, catching the familiar scent of woodsmoke and vanilla. She still hadn’t figured out how to feel about whatever was going on between her and Aegon right now, but thought if she didn’t deliberate about it that much or try to work out a label for it, then it couldn’t distract her too much either. The logic was sound, she reasoned. And it wasn’t like they didn’t do stuff like this all the time anyway, sharing cloaks and hanging out alone together. The kissing obviously was a new, extraneous variable, but could be forgotten or pushed aside if she decided she just wanted to be friends after all. They could blame the brief weirdness on raging hormones or boredom, or a stress-related coping mechanism. She hoped. Against her better judgement however, she leant in closer, her head resting on his shoulder, still keeping an eye on the skies above.

She felt Aegon shift just as the crowded courtyard below started to get louder and someone shouted “ _There!_ ” Where exactly “there” was, she couldn’t work out for a few seconds, until out of the corner of her eye she noticed a large black shape coming towards them in the sky, at what looked like great speed. For a brief and ridiculous moment she thought a dragon was flying straight towards them, before the shape got closer and was revealed to resemble a gigantic and ornately decorated caravan, pulled by several rows of equally gigantic winged horses. The caravan swooped low over the castle and did a couple of great circling laps before coming to a halt the other side of the viaduct, the huge structure landing with a surprising amount of grace that was most certainly from magical intervention. From their vantage point, Aegon and Arya had a perfect view of the two dozen occupants that emerged from the caravan and started to march across the great bridge.

“Durmstrang.” Aegon muttered, peering down at newcomers as they entered the courtyard. Arya could see that the strangers were dressed in heavy black cloaks and boots that made a noise audible from even up in the tower, and each bore a long, dark plait of hair down their backs, some of which were decorated with gold rings and bands. They moved like a military unit, and seemed to be entirely made up of well-built young men, with the exception of a single grey-bearded man, who was currently shaking the hand of Professor Mormont, standing on the steps to the castle. Like the students, the man had a long plait of hair down his back, covered in more gold ornamentation than any of them, and was wrapped in a heavy cloak, too. The last of the newcomers had barely just disappeared into the castle with Professor Selmy before the crowded courtyard started to make enthusiastic noises again, this time aimed at the lake.

Aegon shivered and pulled Arya slightly closer as they both looked out towards the lake, which looked as if a maelstrom had started right in the centre of it, bubbling up and pushing great waves towards the shore. From the centre of the massive whirlpool a long black pole began to rise, followed soon by rigging and what looked like billowing rust-coloured sails.

“It’s a ship.” She stated, incredulously, as the great vessel began to rise higher and higher in the water, gleaming in the moonlight and throwing everything into silhouette. She could just about make out a flag flapping around in the breeze; it held an emblem of a spear shooting through a crimson sun, on an orange background. Lights flickered on in the ships portholes, and warm orange light was thrown across the lake, along with a plank that reached towards the shore closest to the school. A group disembarked from the boat, stranger looking than the previous group even had been. Despite the less than warm September climate, the newcomers were dressed in loosely fitting robes, in varying shades of orange and red, and held together at the waist and hips with brown leather belts. It was hard to tell the males and females apart from the height of the tower, as many wore headscarves that covered up their hair and faces. Arya could tell through the half-light that most of them were tanned and slender, walking with a certain grace through the courtyard, and students below were visibly and audibly impressed by the influx of new, beautiful people to look at. A brief conversation was had between the front member of the group and Professor Mormont, before they then followed the headmaster through the doors and into the castle, with Hogwarts teachers and students following in quickly behind.

“I suppose we’d better get down there too.” Aegon spoke first, not moving his hand from Aryas shoulder.

“I suppose we had.” She echoed, aware that Aegon still wasn’t moving. She glanced sideways and up at him, meeting his eyes, now deep purple in the darkness of the night. Neither said anything for a long moment, before Arya made a split-second decision and moved forward to kiss Aegon, who immediately did the same thing, leaving Arya to wonder how on earth the boy could emanate such heat all the time, as their lips touched. The doors to the entrance hall closed with a great booming echo below, and the pair reluctantly broke apart, hastily running down the tower into the great hall just before Hodor closed the doors to that, too. They slid into seats halfway down the Gryffindor table unnoticed, everyone else paying attention to the interesting newcomers instead, who were seemingly facing the dilemma of where to sit.

The first group from Durmstrang had seemingly ingratiated themselves with the Slytherins already, and Arya could see Joffrey Baratheon quickly moving up to allow someone a seat next to him on the bench; odd behaviour for a selfish git such as Baratheon, she thought. It all made sense however when she caught a glimpse of the rather large newcomer he had made space for.

“Merlins beard! That’s Khal Drogo!” She exclaimed, standing up to get a better look, just as Daario came excitedly sprinting along the other side of the table, pushing two miniature first years to the side, before throwing himself into the seat opposite Arya.

“Did you see-”

“-is it actually him?”

“Definitely. I was right next to Mormont when they came in. He’s bloody huge-”

“-surely can’t be at school still, he looks at _least_ thirty-”

“-must be over six and a half foot, look how huge he looks sitting next to Baratheon, the weedy little cockroach…”

“-definitely looks like he’s had some kind of mishap with an ageing potion-”

“Can someone please explain what the hell is happening here?” Aegon hissed, interrupting Arya and Daario’s animated rambling, and looking slightly put-out that he was the only one that didn’t know what was going on. Judging by the whispers and pointing coming from the rest of the students in the hall, he really _was_ the only one that didn’t know. 

“That’s _Khal Drogo_.” Daario stated, looking over his shoulder reverently at the newcomer, who was either unaware of the small tsunami of recognition travelling through the students, or just didn’t care. When Aegon still looked blank, he continued; “Egg, that’s only one of the greatest beaters of all time. Plays for the Essosi national quidditch team. And he’s a _Prince_. A bloody Prince! That guy is my idol.” Daario sighed breathlessly. “Do you think he’d give me an autograph?” Aegon looked flummoxed still, staring at Drogo with a laughably blank expression on his face. A major drawback to having Aegon as a friend was that (besides being extremely good-looking and annoyingly fanciable), he had absolutely no interest or understanding of quidditch. He had a weak grasp of the rules, could fly reasonably well and would occasionally play in goal when coerced in the summer holidays; but was otherwise a completely useless candidate to discuss Arya’s favourite game with. He had a weird aversion to team sports, something that Arya could never fathom, having followed and played quidditch since a young age. Arya spotted Gendry Waters a few spaces away, with the same expression of awe on his face that Daario held, and had to repress the urge to laugh. Girls got a hard time for fawning over celebrity men, she thought, but the boys were just as bad.

The other group of newcomers had finally found seats too, during all the commotion over new resident celebrity Khal Drogo. They had divided themselves between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw table, and some were starting to join in conversations with her fellow Gryffindors a few places away, speaking Westerosi with heavy accents. It hadn’t even crossed Arya’s mind that some of them would not speak the same language as the Hogwarts students; how would they communicate? She spoke decent Braavosi and Valyrian, thanks to an annoyingly persistent Septa that had tutored her before Hogwarts, but she wasn’t even sure that would help with students from Beauxbatons or Durmstrang. She was sure she had read somewhere that Beauxbatons was located in Dorne, but didn’t speak a word of the language, despite knowing a bit about their history. She didn’t even _know_ where Durmstrang was. Daenerys might know, she thought absentmindedly, peering down the table at her best friend; she’d probably already read a book about it in preparation.

Mormont welcomed the newcomers and their headteachers. Professor Bharbo stood up for Durmstrang; a cruel looking man that was built like a weightlifter still, despite looking well into his sixties. He had tanned skin and dark eyes that looked mistrustful of everyone, though seemed to be deep in conversation with Professor Baelish, Head of Slytherin. The sharp-featured Arithmancy teacher had always creeped Arya out, so it seemed no great surprise to her that he seemed to have found common cause with the equally creepy Durmstrang headteacher. Beauxbatons’ headteacher seemed friendlier, introducing himself as Professor Martell and saying a few words about the importance of international magical co-operation in “times like these” or something similar, before being pushed in his wheeled chair to sit at the table, next to the Red Viper. The similarities between the two brothers were undeniable, and both smiled warmly as they embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks, before starting up a conversation with Professors Mormont and Lannister.

There were no big speeches from Mormont this time; Arya supposed he was all worn out from the two big feasts in the two previous weeks. He was currently listening intently to something Professor Lannister was saying, whilst tucking into a curry dish that even Arya had found too hot, gulping down pumpkin juice whilst Aegon laughed at her- at the same time reaching below the table to surreptitiously squeeze her knee through her robes, causing her stomach to do a somersault. He didn’t mention anything about their second (and Arya couldn’t help thinking, completely sober) kiss, because Daario was sitting just opposite them, shovelling stuffed peppers into his mouth with nauseating speed.

*

Finding the common room packed with excitable younger years on their return from the great hall, Arya and Aegon had said their goodbyes; neither were keen to try and have a conversation over their loud games of exploding snap, and Daario was still third-wheeling, completely oblivious of their desire to have a moment together in private. Arya instead had slouched upstairs and retrieved her wash things, intending to have a shower and climb into bed early, running into Daenerys doing the same thing. “Check your map.” She had ordered, before explaining; “We can go to the prefects’ bathroom if it’s free.” Arya did as she was told, never one to pass up the opportunity when offered. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t allowed in the prefects bathroom at all, accompanied by a prefect or not- but it was always one of the rules Daenerys was more lax in upholding. It was the beauty of being an intelligent, straight-laced, respectable student, Arya supposed; Daenerys was never really suspected of breaking any rules so could easily get away with doing so more often. Oh, the irony. The only problem with visiting the bathroom however; it was usually Daenerys-code for wanting to talk about something in private. Suddenly Arya felt nervous, thinking of anything she or Aegon had done to rouse suspicion in the past few days. The bathroom was free. The girls passed Meera on the way out, sitting in the corner of the common room, brunette again and trying to focus on finishing a transfiguration essay that was due the next morning. She looked up and waved, before whipping round and threatening to hex a third year that was loudly joking with his friends while she was trying to concentrate. 

“Curious, wasn’t it?” Daenerys asked, gracefully swimming short laps of the massive bath whilst Arya experimented with the taps, searching for the one that spouted vanilla scented bubbles.

“What was?”

“Professor Martell’s speech. Beauxbatons Martell, not Hogwarts.” She clarified, seeing Arya’s facial expression. Arya didn’t know if this was a trick; she had barely paid attention to the speech, being far too preoccupied trying to catch a better glimpse of Khal Drogo while everyone else had been sat down. “What, that load of old waffle about international magical co-operation?” She supplied, pushing off from the edge to float on the surface of the water. Daenerys ploughed on regardless. “There was some important stuff hidden in that waffle.”

“There was?”

“He said ‘in times like these’, meaning something’s _happening_ , Arya. He was saying how important it was to make friends and encourage co-operation internationally; forming associations between different schools and ministries of magic. He’s basically saying… well it’s almost like he’s saying we need to form alliances.” Arya considered this, still floating and watching the light from the water reflect off the ceiling. Daenerys had stopped her lengths now and swam closer, almost whispering. “Just like-”

“-Just like last time.” She cut in, getting what Daenerys was implying. She turned to face her, ever so slightly in awe at how her friend had managed to pay attention enough to a dull speech to figure this out. The suggestion that the wizarding world was descending into the same chaos that had overcome it over fifteen years ago was worrying, to say the least. “But nothing’s happened” Arya was finally able to supply, “last time, there were disappearances and all sorts, and I mean- there were the Death Eaters, they started within Hogwarts itself, Dad told me once. If something was happening- or beginning to happen, at least, then surely we’d have heard _something_?”

“You’d hope so. But with the Lannisters in charge…” She said darkly, scowling. The Targaryen/Lannister feud went back hundreds of years, Arya knew; the two rich and powerful pure blood families were always at eachothers throats, but the final straw was the last wizarding war. House Targaryen had lost almost everything fighting the Night King, leaving just Rhaella Targaryen and her three grandchildren, one of whom was angrily swimming lengths again in front of Arya at that very moment. The three had soon dwindled down to just two, as Viserys descended into madness from his experiences during the war. House Lannister meanwhile had sat back and waited in their manor house, electing not to use their power and influence to help anyone in need, until victory was all but assured. Tywin Lannister now sat at the head of the ministry, and his insufferable slimy git of a grandson sauntered around Hogwarts like he owned the place. He had even managed to escape expulsion last year after an ongoing incident with Sansa, no doubt due to the timely intervention of Lannister senior. It had all been swept under the carpet like nothing. The memory of seeing her older sister beaten and bloodied the way she had been last year… it made Arya flush with anger just thinking about it.

Arya still laid awake hours later, mulling over their bathroom speculation. If what Daenerys had said was true… Arya didn’t want to think about the consequences of another wizarding war. Their world had barely escaped unscathed from the last one. She was so preoccupied with the loudness of her own thoughts that she didn’t notice the lack of heavy breathing from the bed adjacent to her own; Daenerys wasn’t able to sleep either.


	4. Chapter 4

Saturday brought with it cold showers and gloomy skies, yet the Gryffindor quidditch captain still insisted on continuing with a punishing training regime. This was why after morning lessons, Arya, Alys and Meera found themselves kitted up and trudging past Daenerys, who was reading by their crackling dormitory fire. At least the school week is over now, Arya thought. That didn’t mean piles of homework weren’t waiting for her when she was done with practice, though. It was beginning to look like she’d have to employ the age-old standby of the all-nighter. Any chances she’d have to catch Aegon on his own would be next to nothing also, she thought moodily as the girls chatted animatedly ahead of her.

Gendry had decided that the less than ideal weather conditions would deter the Slytherins from spying, and so had consented to use of the quidditch pitch, after much complaining from the chasers that they needed actual hoops to practise. Arya was happier with the change of scenery too; she could fly further, higher and faster over the bigger pitch. After her 5th catch and re-release of the tiny golden ball, she paused again to give it a head start, and peered down through the rain at the action below. They really were working well together she thought, her eyes catching on Alys just as Daario swooped in, thumping a bludger away from her with ease before zipping off again. Arya had caught the beater trading a rare chocolate frog card earlier in exchange for a biography about the Essosi national quidditch team, then turning immediately to Drogo’s page. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought he was quickly developing an infatuation with the prince. He wouldn’t have been alone however; at breakfast the massive foreign beater had been fielding hungry looks left right and centre from girls, followed not too far behind by Joffrey Baratheon and his slimy little sidekicks, Slynt and Trant. Unfortunately the delegations from Durmstrang had all seemed to be paired with Slytherins, and so would be expected to sit with them for meals, go to the same lessons, and be shown around the school by them too. Arya had briefly wondered whether they minded being saddled with the house with the worst reputation in the school, then realised they probably wouldn’t have known any better anyway. From the look of their headmaster, and rumours she’d heard already that day about the school’s propensity for the dark arts, it seemed fitting. Their exclusion of any and all girls from their Triwizard hopefuls was also a black mark in their ledger, she thought. Anyone who didn’t think witches could do as well as wizards was clearly sexist and an idiot.

Far more promising seemed the Dornish arrivals; tanned, slender and charismatic, they seemed to have charmed everyone already. Sansa had been paired with the Red Viper’s very own nephew, Trystane Martell, and Arya had spotted them together at breakfast, poring over a timetable. She wondered if the attractive young man would be enough to sway Sansa away from her current boyfriend Harry. The Head Boy was the dullest boy she’d ever had the bad fortune to meet, and she was very keen for her older sister to have an upgrade. A tanned, curly haired, Triwizard-champion worthy upgrade.

Arya was interrupted in her daydreaming about the Beauxbatons students by a bludger whizzing towards her so fast that she barely had time to move, instead having to make do with covering her face with her arm and swerving to the left sharply, shocking her into the real world again. When she moved her hand away she realised she had caught the side of her face with the broken metal clasp of her arm guard, something she’d been meaning to get fixed for months.

“What the hell are you doing?” Gendry roared, soaring past her and sending the bludger careening down towards the pitch again. “Pay attention!” He snarled, shooting her a dirty look and flying down towards the pitch again, pushing sopping wet hair out of his eyes as he went. She almost shouted back a retort but realised it would be fruitless; he was already too far away and would potentially even knock a bludger back at Arya himself in retaliation. She’d seen him to it to Daario before when had been making Arya laugh by doing an impression of Melisandre, instead of watching the game. The eerie professor had predicted her imminent death just hours before in a divination lesson. When she voiced her concerns in a letter to Jon however, he’d said that she did it to a random student every year and told her not to worry. After she’d predicted Arya for the third year in a row though, she decided it was maybe time to drop the class. Arya wiped the blood away from her stinging temple with a corner of her cloak and carried on; she couldn’t afford to annoy Gendry even more by stopping practice to clean herself up.

Annoyingly, Gendry called everyone back down soon after, just as the sun had started to shine through the clouds; Arya landed with a wet splat next to him on the pitch outside the changing rooms, sending mud flying every which way- including over Waters himself. The look he gave her was dour. She ducked inside quickly in front of him; before he could do anything other than just give her a dirty look. “Really good flying today guys, great communication from the chasers especially, keep it up and we really stand a chance at the cup. ” he shot a dark look sideways at Arya, not needing to add the obvious remark about the seeker needing to stay out of trouble long enough to actually _reach_ the cup final this year. “Go back, dry off and warm up, see you tomorrow at nine.” The team had already started heading out of the changing room when Waters added; “Not you, Stark.” Shit. She was in for it now. She watched morosely as Meera did an apologetic wave and Daario shrugged as if to say, ‘Good luck, mate’. Gendry was standing with his back to her watching them leave, evidently not wanting to say anything until they’d all gone. Arya locked away her broom and performed a quick ventilation spell on her robes, figuring that at least she could be dry while she was shouted at. There was nothing she could do about the mud or blood until she got back to the castle. Her face was throbbing now. The final player disappeared behind the flapping Gryffindor banner that separated the changing rooms from the pitch, and Gendry finally turned to face her with a softer expression than the one Arya had been expecting, gesturing to her face.

“You alright? Does it hurt?”

“Not too much.” She lied, warily, wondering why he was bothering with the niceties when he was obviously about to launch into a lecture about not fucking up his chances this year to win the cup. Again.

“Do you want me to fix it?”

“Nah, I’m sure it’ll be alright. Why-how bad does it look?” She turned and peered into the ancient mirror over a sink in the corner to catch a glimpse of herself, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Her previously neat plait was now half-undone and completely soaked, her cheeks were tinged deep red from the cold, and a thin curved slash of crimson stretched from her temple to her cheek, dried blood covering the lower right side of her face. She looked like she had just got back from a warzone, not quidditch practice. “Okay yeah, maybe you’d better fix it.” She added, hoping that Waters was better at healing spells than she was. She still had the occasional nightmare about the time she had temporarily turned herself blind whilst trying to fix a split lip.

“Okay, hold still then, Stark.” He stepped closer and pulled out his wand. Arya had a sudden fleeting thought that this had all been a ruse for him to get her alone and hex her for not paying attention earlier. “I won’t break your nose, I promise.” He hesitated slightly before reaching out and cupping her face on the uninjured side, his eyes lingering on her own before moving slightly down towards the cut. She inhaled sharply. She’d never noticed his eyes before, brilliant pale blue, like ice but somehow not cold at all. She supposed she’d never actually been alone and this close to the bad-tempered beater before to notice his eyes; he was always someone she’d wanted to keep at arm’s length. He wasn’t a bad looking bloke though, she thought, as Gendry whispered commands and her skin began to slowly stitch itself back together with an itching sensation. Right now, his black hair was tousled and damp from the rain and he was flushed from the cold too, pink lips and cheeks standing out upon his face, still lightly tanned and freckled from the summer. Not bad looking at all.

“If you could stop staring at my face while I’m trying to fix you, that would be great.” He murmured, and Arya had the good grace to blush.

“Where else am I meant to look?” She countered, trying to move as little as possible. She was very aware of his rough hand on the side of her face still, holding it in place.

“Anywhere else. I mean-I get that I’m irresistible but it’s hard to concentrate with you gazing longingly into my eyes.”

“I was not _gazing longingly_ into your bloody eyes.”

“Don’t worry Stark, I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m _not_ gazing longingly into your eyes, you git.”

“Almost done.” He half-chuckled, and a few seconds later withdrew his wand, but not his hand from the side of her face. If anyone had walked in at that moment, it would have looked as if he was about to kiss her. Arya had a bizarre fleeting thought that he actually might. He appeared to inspect his handiwork for a second before looking into her eyes again; Arya held his gaze for a long moment, as if almost daring him to turn away first. He did. She wasn’t sure why she’d done it, either. Her cheek felt cold where his hand had left. “Perfect work if I say so myself.” He said, now drying his robes with the same spell Arya had used minutes ago. She turned to look in the mirror again; the dried blood was there still but no open wound, no visible sign of a cut at all.

“Thankyou. It’s really quite good.”

“No problem. And get that arm guard fixed before tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“Also, Arya?”

“Yes?” She looked away from her reflection to the broad-shouldered boy holding the doorway banner open for her.

“Please pay attention more. I can’t afford to lose you.” He was obviously saying it in respect to the team, but Arya’s stomach did a little involuntary somersault as he did it. What on earth was happening to her? She did _not_ like Gendry Waters. Maybe the blood loss was making her lightheaded.

They walked back towards the school in silence, until Gendry brought up the topic of league quidditch, which began an almost-argument in which Arya tried as best she could to defend the prowess of the Wintertown Wytches, her local team. Gendry supported the Dragonstone Devils, a team that were doing considerably better in the league and had just signed Theon as their new seeker for the season. Unable to trash talk her older brothers’ best friend too much, she let Gendry talk while she listened, instead. They had subconsciously taken the slightly longer route that followed the edge of the lake back to the castle, and were approaching the bank where the Beauxbatons ship was anchored. A group of Dornish students were skimming stones on the lake, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, and their headteacher was sat not too far away in his wheeled chair with Professor Lannister, clearly deep in conversation. The pair looked up as Gendry and Arya approached, who held hands up in greeting. Professor Tyrion was one of Arya’s favourite teachers, knowledgeable in dozens of subjects, always happy to help, and the only Lannister that she would ever admit to liking. It was such a shame he was related to Joffrey Baratheon. He waved back and offered a word of acknowledgement, but his companion just sat and stared, looking slightly dazed at the pair walking towards him. He looked from one to the other as if he had seen a pair of ghosts. Thankfully the path curved up towards the castle before it fully reached the teachers, and with a nudge of his elbow Gendry seemed to be steering them towards it, for which Arya was grateful. Martell was still staring as they disappeared behind some rocks at the foot of the ascent towards the great hall.

“What the hell was that about?” He asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

“No idea. The blood, maybe?”

“Nah, you can barely see it. That was something else.” He glanced down towards the lake shore again nervously as if he could feel the man’s eyes boring into him from behind still, like Arya thought she could. It gave her a chilly feeling on the back of her neck.

“Weird.”

“Definitely weird.”

*

Caught up in the hustle and bustle of Hogwarts, homework and quidditch practices, Arya had all but forgotten about the impending Triwizard Tournament- until coming down to lunch one day to see the great hall buzzing with activity, and a large cup standing on the stage that usually housed the teachers table. It was roughly carved of stone, taller than she was, and full to the brim with pale crimson flames. Several students were standing around it, inspecting the thin line of smoke that surrounded it in a large circle, about waist height. Daenerys slumped down opposite her on a bench, heaving books onto the table and pouring herself a steaming mug of tea from the pot.

“It’s an age line.” She explained, now heaping mashed potatoes on her plate, “Mormont drew it himself this morning; I saw on my way to the library. And the goblet is enchanted too, as a double precaution. They’ve used it since the very first Triwizard Tournamen.” She opened the top book on her pile and slid it across the table, displaying a drawing of an identical cup, annotated with rows of miniscule text and captioned; ‘Goblet of Fire’. “Professor Baelish lent me the book after Arithmancy; he said he thought I might find it interesting.” Arya had sinking feeling in her stomach; there was no way she was going to get past an age line drawn by Mormont himself, let alone the ancient enchanted goblet. Any hopes she had of being a champion now had been dashed. Any chance she had of making a name for herself, rather than always being compared to family members more brilliant, more intelligent, more brave, all gone. Daenerys had seen her crestfallen expression, and was now trying to console her, heaping sausages and mash on Aryas own plate like a mother trying to make her child eat. “It’s dangerous anyway. Terribly dangerous. I’ve been reading up about the past tournaments, students died all the time. I know they said they were going to make it safer this year but…” She tailed off, realising she wasn’t really helping.

“I know it’s meant to be dangerous, I just…” She fumbled for words, pushing bits of onion around her plate.

“I know, Arya.” She reached over and held her hand, “I know.” Of course she would. Daenerys and Aegon knew better than most how Arya felt, living in the shadow of others. Their own father had died a hero, saviour of the wizarding world, along with Arya’s own aunt. Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark were the pair of star crossed lovers that had come together to defeat the Night King and his army, like something out of a fairy-tale. They had left an impossible to live up to legacy of bravery and magical prowess for the Starks and Targaryens that came after. Lyanna had been the brightest witch of her age, beautiful and powerful in equal measure. Arya had read the books, heard the stories and seen the pictures, she both idolised her aunt and hated her; there was no living up to her legacy-and it didn’t help that she was frequently told by her father that she looked just like her. Ned Stark had clearly been blind; the pictures of Lyanna Stark showed a beautiful smiling woman with wide, green eyes, porcelain skin and wild dark hair that seemed to curl in all the right places. Arya on the other hand had a lions-mane of muddy brown waves, was permanently freckled from a love of the outdoors, and had slate-grey eyes like her father, which Jon had once compared to a dirty river. Lyanna had a slender woman’s figure, whereas Arya was short and skinny and toned like a small boy. Apart from by her father, she had never been called beautiful in her life; she just wasn’t the beautiful type.

Aside from Lyanna Stark, there was still the legacy of her other family members to contend with. Her father and both uncles had been aurors in the first wizarding war, battling on the front lines; Brandon had died in a duel with the Night King himself, but Benjen was still alive and working as an auror, now old and grizzled and a bit mad. Then there was the matter of her own siblings; Jon and Robb, whilst irritating and badly behaved at school, had managed to do well in their NEWT’s and go on to lead in their own fields of work. Both were fondly remembered by teachers, and Arya was subjected to an anecdote about one or the other at least once a month by her professors. She’d got a letter not a week ago from her mother saying that Robb had been promoted again at the ministry. Then there was Sansa. Perfect, intelligent, popular Sansa. Top of every class and Head Girl to boot, Arya was _always_ being compared to her sister. Arya knew she wasn’t _completely_ useless; she was quite good at Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts, the best at quidditch in the family, and was intelligent in her own way, but it never felt _enough_. She knew that she was seen by most people as the lazy one, the unpredictable one, and probably the black sheep of the family. She loved the rest of the Starks dearly, and would protect them fiercely if she had to, but always felt like a bit of an outsider in her pack of well-accomplished witches and wizards. She was just Arya.

*

The enchanted ceiling of the great hall displayed a gloomy grey sky and rain as the day of their match against Slytherin dawned. The Gryffindor team was currently huddled around one end of the long breakfast table, after getting a last-minute pep talk from Gendry. Since he had fixed her gouged face the other week he’d been slightly friendlier to Arya- but only slightly. It was still very rare to get more than a vague smile from the beater, but here he was now, trying to force her to eat something before they headed down to the pitch. Before a match was the only time Arya couldn’t face food; she always felt jittery and twitchy, as though someone had forced her to drink eight cups of coffee and then filled her stomach with writhing worms. She nibbled the corner off a slice of toast and marmalade that Gendry had forced onto her plate before heading out; too distracted to ask how he had known it was her favourite choice of breakfast.

She tried to catch a glimpse of Aegon and Daenerys in the crowd whilst the teams hovered just above the ground, waiting for the balls to be released. The rain was thick and her goggles were steaming up already, but she thought she could spot them by the Slytherin hoops, two heads of platinum hair that stuck out like a sore thumb in the otherwise dark crowd. Aegon had managed to slip her a good luck note this morning via house elf, who had left the folded piece of parchment on her quidditch robes along with a bar of honeydukes honeycomb chocolate. Looking at the chocolate had made her feel quite sick at the time, but filled her with a fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach that had nothing to do with nerves. He had never done anything like that before. Arya wondered if she was going to have to reconsider her blasé approach to labelling their relationship. She was too skittish right now to think about anything other than staying on her broom, however.

They were off. Arya lost sight of the snitch as soon as it was released, the rain pouring down in sheets, but at the screech of the whistle all her pre-match fears had ebbed away; she was now completely focused, and determined not to fuck up on her first game back in the team again. She gripped Needle tightly and edged it high above the pitch, hoping to spot a glint of gold among the thousands of silvery droplets falling from the sky. Joffrey Baratheon had done the same; she could see the slimy seeker in her peripheral scanning the stadium for any sign of it while the match carried on below. She had a terrible feeling that it was going to be a long match. It was up to the seeker to finish it, but weather like this always meant a long one.

They were thirty points down and half an hour into the game now, and from what she could make out, Slytherin had most of the possession. Arya was freezing cold, soaked to the bone and frustrated at having not had much to do except fly around aimlessly all match. The most exciting manoeuvre she had pulled so far had been heading into a steep dive towards Asha Greyjoy, when she had mistaken her golden broom compass for the snitch. Baratheon had been lazily tailing her the whole time; evidently preferring to let her do the searching while he simply followed from a short distance. She had feinted a couple of times, flown about erratically, and tried as best she could to lose him, to no avail. But now she saw it for real, a fleck of gold just forty feet below her, hovering near Meera’s left foot. She dived with intent now, flattening herself against the broom as a bludger was pelted towards her at a hair-raisingly close distance by Ramsey Bolton. Swerving around the Slytherin goal she followed the snitch to where it had raced up along the stands, diving sharply up and then down again when it changed paths suddenly. Baratheon had seen her sudden action and was in pursuit; now only a brooms length away and gaining on her all the time. She reached out, close enough to almost touch the snitch when another bludger came zooming towards her out of the rain. She wasn’t quick enough this time. It crashed straight into her arm with a sickening crunch, and she cried out with pain, holding on to Needle for dear life as her view seemed to swim before her. Still diving towards the ground at full pelt, she jerked the broom upwards at the last second, narrowly avoiding a head-long collision with the swampy pitch. Cradling her shattered arm to her chest, she gripped the broom with her knees and reached out with the other hand, fingertips clutching desperately at the tiny golden ball before everything went black.

*

Everything was flickering. She was face up into the rain, and could taste mud and blood. She was moving now, but she wasn’t walking- someone must be carrying her. She looked up but everything was blurry. Broad shoulders and dark hair. Cradling her to their chest. She was dry now, warmer; her arm felt like splinters. Her head full of dull static. Now she was in a bed with crispy white sheets, in a room that smelt like blood and detergent. She was thirsty; someone had given her a liquid but her throat burned. She went back to sleep.

Arya woke up to the sound of a door closing and heeled footsteps getting closer and closer. Someone was by her bed now, smelling of soap and lavender. She opened her eyes a crack, greeted with the image of Madame Mordane leaning over her, inspecting a sheath of bandages on her right arm. Memories of a loud crack and torrential rain came flooding back to her as she glanced sideways at her freshly laundered quidditch robes, and a bedside table, which was covered in cards and various bars of chocolate and sweets.

“Oh good, you’re up. About time too, I was starting to get worried.”

“Did we win?” The septa did not look happy with Arya’s first choice of question, and pursed her lips disapprovingly.

“Yes. You also shattered your arm, had two broken ribs, a cracked skull and a terrible concussion! You were out for four whole days, dear.” Oh. Quidditch injuries were nothing new to Arya, but she’d never been out this long before. Not even with the incident last year had she missed so many days. It felt odd to think about. Arya gingerly lifted the sheets and her top to see bruises still along her ribcage, but felt no pain. She couldn’t completely remember how she had sustained the injuries in the match, only vaguely recalling the sensation of falling, but she supposed it might come back to her after the concussion wore off. “The ribs are fixed now. Your skull, too- nasty one, that was. The arm is close I would say- I had to give you skelegrow dear, there was no other way…shattered completely you see. And the concussion may take another couple of days to wear off completely, but there’s no way for me to fix that quicker, as you well know. Multiple concussive injuries can be fatal. ” At this, she shot Arya a dark look, not needing to remind her that a concussion was partially the reason for her last visit to the hospital wing, after the whomping willow had decided to try and take a chunk out of her. Mordane faffed around her a while longer, plumping up pillows, muttering occasionally about the “nasty game” and telling her she’d be kept in until the end of the week so she could monitor her before bustling off to get Arya something to eat from the kitchens. In the meantime, she turned towards her bedside table and the small pile of letters and cards that had been placed there.

Her siblings must have visited her; Sansa had left one of her own favourite jumpers along with a get well soon note, scrawled on pale blue parchment that had been charmed to fold itself into the shape of a bird and fly around the hospital wing after reading. Bran had left her a scratchy ink drawing of her pet owl Nymeria, which would occasionally ruffle its feathers or fly around the page when it got bored. Also delivered (presumably from Nymeria herself) was a letter from her mother that repeated the same old lecture about how terribly dangerous a sport quidditch was, and wouldn’t she rather take up a new hobby like knitting? She had also included a rather large parcel of homemade get well soon treats though, and Arya paused to carefully shrug on Sansa’s jumper over her arm sling before taking a large bite from a pecan and chocolate chip cookie. A small pile of her schoolbooks and parchment were perched on the chair next to the bed, along with a card from Dany and Meera, promising that they would come back to see her every chance they got. A postscript from Meera had added that she would of course provide a blow-by-blow recounting of the match, too. Daario had left her a large pack of fudge flies and pepper imps, and Aegon had written a disappointingly short scrawl, wishing her a speedy recovery and promises to come and visit her as soon as he could. Most surprisingly however, was the lack of anything from her two older brothers. Madam Mordane had said she’d been blacked out for four days, which was plenty of time for them to have received word that she was injured, and sent a reply back. They would definitely _know_ ; Sansa and her mother would have made sure of it. Catelyn Stark liked nothing better than to frequently remind her children how dangerously they or others were behaving; she wouldn’t have hesitated to provide Arya as an example of what can go wrong when they don’t listen to her sage wisdom. Jon admittedly was in Romania, so it might have taken a couple of days for owl to reach him, but Robb? He was only in London- plenty close enough for a response to be here by now! Arya sulked over her older brothers’ negligence a bit more, before drifting off to sleep, feeling a bit nauseous after consuming too many cookies in such a short space of time.

*

For the second time that day, Arya was awoken by the sound of a door closing and footsteps coming closer. Blearily, she looked up, and felt her face light up at the sight of her best friends bustling into the hospital wing. They both grinned too, and half jogged towards her bed at the end, throwing their arms around her and collapsing on chairs, both babbling at once to try and fill her in on information.

“-so glad you’re okay, we were so worried, we’ve been coming up every chance we got-”

“-was so much blood, you looked a right mess-”

“-and have recorded all your work for you so you haven’t missed anything-”

“-Professor Martell was furious, gave him a three match ban-” Arya couldn’t get a word in edgeways, until she shifted to sit up and winced slightly, a dull pain creeping across her forehead; they were both suddenly silenced at this, looking as though they half expected her to pass out again. She took the opportunity to cut in. “So… what actually happened then? I mean” She gestured with her good arm at her various injuries “I know I’m accident prone but this couldn’t have been _all_ me. Who got a three match ban?”

“You mean you don’t remember?!” Meera looked shocked

“Not a thing. I mean, I remember being hit by the bludger but I stayed on the broom still…right?”

“You did. And continued playing-”

“-which was really fucking amazing, by the way.” Meera cut in excitedly, earning a reproachful look from Daenerys.

“It _was_ quite heroic of you, yes. Anyway, you were both chasing the snitch still, but you were way ahead, so Bolton kept pelting bludgers at you, to clear the way for Baratheon, you know? And you suddenly pulled out of the dive, but Baratheon didn’t quite-”

“-the slimy git only went and crashed face first into the mud! Couldn’t pull up in time! Oh, Arya it was _hilarious_ , you should have seen his face! Proper smashed his nose up; unfortunately Mordane was able to fix it though-”

“-yes, so _anyway_ , as I was saying; Baratheon had crashed into the ground and you were about to catch the snitch, so Bolton decided to take his anger out I guess, by launching another bludger at you. And well- it hit you in the back of the head and you sort of crumpled and fell off your broom…” That would explain the cracked skull and broken ribs, Arya thought bitterly, already thinking of ways to pay Ramsey Bolton back for her still thumping headache and splintered bones.

“You caught it though!” Meera added hopefully to the end of Daenerys’ slightly depressing end-of-match description. “And Bolton is on a ban until almost the end of the year! Martell had a right go at him, shouting about irresponsible behaviour and endangering the lives of others. Daario took a swing at him with his own beaters bat, but luckily Gendry pulled him back, otherwise he’d probably have a ban, too. Oh- and Gendry carried you all the way up here, too!”

“He did?”

“Yeah, he looked distraught.” Meera said, seriously, while Daenerys nodded solemnly behind her. Arya wondered how bad she must have looked, for even Gendry Waters to be distraught at her injuries. She wasn’t exactly anything important to him, unless you counted being in the same quidditch team as a particularly important. Maybe he was distraught about his quidditch cup hopes potentially being dashed again if she’d died. She had a sudden flashback to his words the other day in the changing rooms when they were all alone; “I can’t afford to lose you, Arya.” She remembered how her stomach had done a little involuntary somersault when he’d said it, even though at the time she’d thought it was obviously about the team. _Was_ it just about the team? And why did she care so much? She could barely stand the grumpy captain most of the time, and she was sure the feeling was mutual; they never even spoke normally if it wasn’t about quidditch…until the couple of incidents recently, that is. Dany and had noticed her inattentiveness and had seized upon it, observant as ever. “Arya…you and Gendry…are you…?” She tailed off, seemingly too shy to address the issue directly. Meera however, was not so reserved.

“Are you shagging Gendry Waters?!” She almost shouted incredulously.

“What? No! Of course not! And keep your bloody voice down!” She hissed back, nervously glancing over to Mordane’s office door, thankfully still firmly shut. She wasn’t even sure if she was allowed visitors yet. She _was_ sure that her friends had jumped to insane conclusions quicker than she thought possible.

“You never did tell us who that bruise was from…”

“And I’m not going to. Look, I am _not_ having sex with Gendry Waters. I’m not having sex with _anyone_.” She added forcefully, glaring at them both, hoping they would both drop the issue immediately. They didn’t.

“I mean, he’s not bad looking Arya. You could do worse.”

“And what’s that meant to mean?”

“It means he’s a tall, attractive quidditch captain; that also happens to be a seventh year too.”

“And he’s got that whole brooding thing going on.”

“Ooh, yeah, that’s true.”

“It’s not a brooding thing; he’s always being a bad-tempered git that’s all. He shouted at me the other week for accidently cutting my _own_ face open!”

“Well yes, but then he fixed it for you too, you said. So he can’t be all bad. I mean, he must like you a little bit to do that…”

“And lug you all the way up here after the match when you were completely battered.”

“It was like something from a romance novel! Like Jonquil and Florian!”

“Yeah, Dany, If Jonquil had a broken arm and was fucking _bleeding_ all over the place…” The two started to bicker amongst themselves again, leaving Arya a seconds respite to think for herself. She’d never considered Gendry Waters as more than a minor antagonist in her life, someone to shout at her when she was shit at quidditch, to occasionally nod at her in recognition when he saw her away from the pitch, but nothing else. She supposed recently she’d spoken to him more, had a few decent conversations about quidditch, and they’d shared that weird moment in the changing rooms; something that _could_ maybe be considered flirting, if you squinted a bit. But she wasn’t sure that actually meant he liked her. And then there was Aegon, too. She felt bad even comparing them, or drawing them into the same discussion- it wasn’t like she was pitting them against each other. It wasn’t _really_ like she should be thinking about this at all, she supposed, remembering her promise to Catelyn Stark and to herself that she would stay away from trouble this year. Trouble included relationships, and relationships included boys. Besides, Daenerys and Meera saying they thought Gendry liked her, didn’t equate to him _actually_ liking her. And Aegon- well, they were close friends, and had kissed a couple of times, he made her feel a bit hot and fluttery inside and it was _great_ ; but nothing more than that. It wasn’t enough to ruin a friendship but also not enough for Arya to be sure she wanted something else. What if they did pursue something else and it went wrong? Who would sneak out at night with her, help her scrape together last minute essays, and endlessly make fun of her? Why was sixth year so confusing? She’d rather write five boring Herbology essays right now than try and work out the ins and outs of her own brain. And she had three more days to sit in the hospital wing by herself with no school, and have to do exactly that. Brilliant.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

* * *

Arya was released from the hospital wing after breakfast on Saturday, when Madame Mordane had finally permitted her to leave. She had plied her with a tiny bottle of sleeping potion to help with her occasional night headaches, as well as several more vials of blood-replenishing potion to replace what she had lost through the cracked skull. She was still slightly too pale, as though someone had coated her with a sheen of white powder, but blood replenishing took time she knew- she’d be okay in a few days anyway. The well-meaning school matron had expressed her desire for Arya to stay one more night, but had eventually relented when she’d kicked up a fuss and tearfully claimed she wanted to be in her own bed again. It was partially true, she really _was_ looking forward to sinking into her four poster and having a long nap as soon as she got back to the dormitory; she had however omitted the fact that she also wanted to be back to celebrate Daario’s birthday with him and the others. And perhaps have some of the Elderflower wine she had snuck into her trunk when returning in September. The tears were a bit of an underhand trick, but really had seemed necessary to her release. She didn’t feel too bad about the deception, at least. She had just needed to be out of that cold, white ward.

The halls and passageways were quiet as the NEWT students would mostly be in lessons, and she supposed the younger years were having a lay-in or entertaining themselves elsewhere, free of Saturday school; probably chasing eachother around the grounds or playing gobstones by the fire in the common room like she used to do. She thought back to her first years at Hogwarts almost longingly; all that free time and so many new things to discover around the castle. Now her leisure time was seemingly always filled with reading, writing essays, quidditch practice, and the occasional few hours of sleep. She had been back over a month now and she hadn’t snuck out at night even _once_ on a clandestine adventure. Being semi-sensible and hardworking was driving her insane. How had Sansa done it all these years?

Disappointingly, Aegon hadn’t even come to visit Arya in the hospital wing either, instead sending word through Dany that he was piled high with work and would see her when she was released. She didn’t disbelieve the claim, but had (only semi-bitterly) thought that she would have made the effort if he’d been laid up in hospital with a cracked skull and a broken arm. In her many hours alone in the hospital she’d been racking her brains for a solution to what she was going to do about the awkward limbo hanging between them both, and still not come up with a an answer. If she saw him right now however, she’d decided she was going to tell him to piss off. Let him stew for a few hours to think about what he’d done. Or rather, _not_ done.

She’d arrived back at the fat lady however, and was promptly rejected from entering the common room, owing to the fact that she didn’t know the correct password. Having been gone a week, it had changed- and no one had thought to provide her with the new one. She was about to launch into a heated argument with the painting when she heard footsteps coming up behind her and whipped round to see her saviour.

“Stark?” It was none other than Gendry Waters, staggering under the weight of a huge pile of books.

“Oh, hi Gendry. I erm… I’m stuck. Don’t know the new password-” She glanced menacingly at the fat lady, who made a disgruntled noise back. “-and _she_ won’t let me in.”

“It’s Flobberworms.” Gendry managed to grunt out, almost stumbling past Arya and through the now opened portrait, before dropping along with the large stack of books onto the closest sofa and turning to look up at Arya, slightly panting. She tried not to dwell on Dany and Meera’s suspicions about Gendry and his feelings for her. She also tried not to think about how you could clearly see his muscles through his school shirt, and the effect his slight breathlessness was having on her.

“Bit of light reading for the weekend?” She asked instead, raising her eyebrow slightly at the small library he was now neatly piling up again. She went to perch on the other seat of his sofa, a bit lightheaded after doing more exercise in the last twenty minutes than she’d done in over a week.

“It’s for A History of Magic. Pycelle is trying to suck up to our new guests, so he’s set us all essays on Dorne and the Rhoynar. I don’t know a fucking thing about Dorne or the Rhoynar. No one does. You know why? He’s never even _taught us_ either of those things, the pillock!” Gendry punctuated his last word with the slamming down of the final book on the pile, and sighed back into the sofa, closing his eyes. She took a peek at the top book that he had slammed down on the pile, instead of choosing to address his foul mood. She wasn’t feeling well enough for that, yet.

“But the Rhoynar are fascinating!” She picked up the top leather-bound tome and flicked through the first few chapters. “Weren’t you ever told the stories of Rhoynar Princess Nymeria as a child? The palace of Ny Sar?”

“No. I was raised by muggles. I grew up knowing stories about Pocahontas and Cinderella.”

“Cinderella? What’s that- a disease?”

“Not quite…”

“Oh. Erm-well… they’re quite interesting, actually. Especially Nymeria; she was the first warrior queen to conquer Westeros. Or part of it, anyway…” She tailed off, aware that she was rambling slightly. Gendry was looking at her with an expression that she usually associated with the confundus charm. She wondered if she was overstepping some kind of unspoken boundary that was usually in place to separate them both; he’d never really made any indication before that he wanted to talk to Arya outside of quidditch practice, an arrangement that she had been perfectly fine with, too.

“So this warrior queen…Nymeria- is real? Not just some old wizarding fairy tale?”

“Yes of course! She’s one of the greatest witches to ever live! In my opinion, anyway.”

“You sound like an admirer.”

“Oh, I’m a big fan of her work.”

“Are you a big fan of helping other people with their essays? In return for a favour, of course-whatever you want.” Arya was stunned into temporary silence, taking a long look at Gendry to make sure he was being serious before she replied.

“Depends on the favour. I could do with a few training sessions where I’m not shouted at…”

“I only shout because you’re not paying attention.”

“You shout because you love the sound of your own voice too much, Waters.” He shot her a dark look now, one that she decided to ignore. “I’ll help you though. And I’ll think of a favour later?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Stark. I’ll be in the library tonight. Probably all night…” He finished with an even darker look at his pile of books.

“Okay. I might see you there then.” She stood up and headed towards the dormitory before either of them could change their minds. Perched on her headboard upon arrival was a snowy white owl, letter attached to its ankle via a small chain. “About time, Ghost!” She exclaimed, stroking the birds’ head and removing Jon’s letter eagerly. Just as she had somewhat expected, her favourite brothers letter was almost divided neatly in two; the top half was a tirade of insults and threats aimed at Ramsey Bolton, and the bottom was requesting assurance that she was okay, and wishes for a full and speedy recovery. The postscript however was slightly odd; Jon had asked to be kept updated with anything unusual going on at Hogwarts, something he’d never seemed interested in before. She quickly sourced a fresh roll of parchment and scrawled a reply, desperately trying to think of anything unusual that had happened recently. The only thing she could think of was the Triwizard Tournament itself, which he already knew about, and the stares she and Gendry had received a couple of weeks ago from the Beauxbatons headteacher. She added a couple of sentences about the incident anyway, wanting to provide him with _something_ , at least, and attached the folded letter back to Ghosts leg, who then immediately set off through the open window.

It was only when she was already curled up for her nap that she realised Daario’s birthday was tonight, and so she was sure to be busy and therefore unable to help Gendry and collect her favour. She didn’t want to think about why she was so disappointed by this.

*

That evening she headed out of the dormitory with the other girls, having just barely added the finishing touches to the wrapping on Daario’s birthday present. She wouldn’t usually have got him more than a card and some sweets, but since seventeen was an important wizarding birthday, her and Meera had joined together to buy him a new pair of dragon hide gloves for quidditch. She had briefly considered trying to track down Khal Drogo and get his autograph for Daario, but had decided the experience would be too embarrassing; not only would Drogo think she was another simpering fan of his, but he was always surrounded by an entourage of Slytherins as well.

The journey to their destination wasn’t far: the boys’ sixth year dormitory, accessed simply by taking the left staircase that led off from the common room, rather than the right. A well-known fact among Gryffindors (and she assumed an unfixable design flaw on behalf of the founders) was that the boys rooms could be visited by girls, but not vice-versa. The girls could easily climb the stairs to the boys side, and be granted access to the dormitories as long as an inhabitant of said room let them in. The boys on the other hand, could barely reach the tenth step on the girls’ side before it transfigured into a smooth stone slide, ejecting them quickly onto the dusty common room carpet with a loud klaxon-like screech. (Occasionally on slow weekends, boys had been known to sprint up the stairs as fast as they could, with the sole intention of creating a loud noise and a slide upon which to entertain themselves.) The explanation given by the fat lady was that girls were more trustworthy, and therefore the enchantments allowed them access. Nevertheless, the house rules as directed to them by Professor Dondarrion and the prefects (and her perfect head girl sister) were that the boys’ side was only to be accessed in case of emergencies, and no more than two girls were to be there at any one time. Daario’s birthday wasn’t exactly an emergency, and Arya knew for a fact that most of the entire Gryffindor sixth year was going to congregate in their dormitory tonight; but no one else ever seemed to mind, or report their fellow Gryffindors. Besides, it wasn’t like the loophole was often used for the benefit of anything too risqué; the dormitories were shared by at least six people, and couldn’t be locked from the inside- an environment she assumed was less than ideal for a couple trying to find a quiet place to be alone.

She had downed two vials of the blood replenishing potion before getting dressed that evening, in a thick forest-green jumper tucked into jeans, with her usual black leather boots and belt. The baggy jumper and tight belt around her waist _almost_ gave the illusion that she had curves, she had thought happily, inspecting herself in the dormitory mirror. Almost. She had also had had to smear on some of Val’s dark red lipstick, to hide the crimson stain that the potion had left. With the makeup on and not in quidditch robes or baggy boys clothes she looked different, a fact emphasised by Daario’s expression when she first stepped into the boys’ dormitory. He had raised his eyebrows and dramatically looked her up and down, before wolf-whistling. Arya punched him in the shoulder softly and flopped onto his bed along with Daenerys, who daintily took her shoes off first. Meera was across the room with Val and Alys, concocting drinks out of the haphazard collection of alcohol they had managed to sneak into school with them. Aegon had been sprawled out on the rug next to the fireplace with the other boys when they had arrived, and now jumped up, almost knocking Daenerys off the bed as he enthusiastically leaped into the small space between the girls. Arya glared at him disdainfully, trying to ignore the little thrill she’d felt when she’d felt him looking at her from across the room. She also tried to ignore the familiar scent of woodsmoke, and the way he pushed his slightly scruffy hair away from his face, just for it to fall back down to his cheekbones again.

“Sorry, Dany,” he apologised as his twin huffed and slid off the four-poster, going over to help Daario who was rifling through his trunk. In the absence of muggle technology, the boys had somehow smuggled in a record player and some albums-and within a couple of minutes a seventies record was crackling through the speakers. “All mended now?” Aegon asked, grinning and giving her arm an experimental poke. She didn’t reply, still glaring. “Look-I’m sorry for not coming to see you. We’ve been set so much work and-”

“Dany and Meera managed to come and visit. Quite _frequently_ , actually.” She interrupted, almost hissing under her breath, trying not to be overheard.

“I know,” He looked down, looking slightly abashed-or at least doing a very good job of pretending to. “I did visit once, right after it happened…when you were passed out I just-I couldn’t do it, Arya. I’m sorry. I couldn’t see you like that. There was so much blood. You looked…well you looked dead, to be honest.” He was looking into her eyes now, and she could see that he was telling the truth. He glanced up as if to make sure none of the others were listening in, before continuing. “You were so pale, you’d lost so much blood; even Madame Mordane didn’t know when you’d wake up…” He tailed off again, and Arya felt her expression soften despite her previous resolution to let him stew for a little longer at least.

“It’s fine, Aegon.”

“I am _truly_ sorry, Arya.” He looked into her eyes again, a mischievous grin now flitting across his face. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“And how exactly are you going to do that?” She grinned back, realising almost all of her anger had dissipated now; she could never stay mad at Aegon long. He always managed to charm his way back into her good books, she couldn’t resist the handsome idiot and he knew it. He had lost so many family members in his life already too; she couldn’t imagine how it must feel to think someone else was slipping away.

“Oh…I’ll think of something.” He winked, and jumped off the bed, returning seconds later with two glasses of whatever concoction the girls had mixed together. Arya took a sip and winced. Aegon did the same, eyes watering at the vicious mixture of spirits. “Hey Alys, I think your drink just removed the lining of my throat…”

A few drinks later and Arya was feeling warm and fuzzy as she leant on Meera’s shoulder, laughing at Grenn’s spot-on impression of ‘Dolorous’ Ed Tollett, who was not enjoying the impression quite so much as everyone else. They had been sat in front of the fire for so long that the flames had died down to a few smouldering logs, playing exploding snap, muggle drinking games, and chatting about who was going to put their name forward for the Triwizard Tournament. Aegon had already put his name in (to Daenerys’ extreme disapproval and Arya’s worry), and Daario and Val were going together in the morning to put theirs forward; Val having turned seventeen just the week before. The beautiful blonde was currently sat directly opposite her and next to Aegon, giggling at every joke he told and frequently touching his bicep or shoulder; something that made Arya want to hurl her empty bottle of elderflower wine at the damn girls head. The anger reached its peak when the muggle-born suggested they play a game that she had played with her neighbours that summer; spin the bottle.

“Ooh it’s _so_ fun!” She had squealed, diving forward to retrieve Arya’s empty wine bottle, putting it in the middle of their circle and spinning before anyone really had a chance to protest. Not that anyone in their slightly inebriated circle would have, she thought wryly, noting the way Daario’s less than subtle gaze had shifted to peer down Val’s top as she leant forwards. Val’s bottle spin landed on Meera, who she promptly leant forwards to give a peck on the lips, before it was Meera’s go. Her spun landed on Grenn, who accepted the kiss with a slight blush, before spinning and getting Daenerys. When Daenerys’ turn came, it landed on Aegon, who laughed loudly and daintily held out his hand like a princess would hold out her hand for a prince. Arya couldn’t help but hope Aegons spin would land on her, but of course he spun a perfect circle and it came to land on Val, instead. Dutifully, Aegon leant down and pecked Val on the lips, like everyone before had done.

“That’s not a _proper_ kiss!” She exclaimed, laughing, and curled her hands behind his neck, pulling him down towards her lips again. To Arya’s abject horror he returned the kiss just enthusiastically, if not more, and they remained entwined for several long seconds, the only sounds in the room being the crackle of the fireplace and the repulsive sucking noises emitting from the pair. Arya could feel heat rising in her cheeks as she watched them both; wanting at the same time to burst into tears and rip Val’s throat out with her own teeth. She had stood up before she knew what she was doing, knocking over a glass as she yanked her jumper out from underneath Daario’s leg. “Really tired, gotta go…happy birthday, Daario.” She garbled, as she practically ran out of the dormitory and down the stairs. She didn’t turn left at the bottom, instead sprinting straight across the almost empty common room and out of the portrait hole, continuing to run along corridors and down stairs until she ran out of breath, falling into an alcove and breathing in deeply, her jumper balled up in her fist.

Having caught her breath she finally looked up, astonished to find that she had made it all the way down to a thin corridor adjacent to the second floor. She sighed, pulling her jumper over her head again and leaning back into the alcove. She couldn’t go back up to the dormitories, not for a while anyway; Dany and Meera would hound her with questions, and she was sure if she saw Val anytime soon that she’d tear some of her pretty blonde hair out. She didn’t know the time however, and she was definitely tipsy- something that could get her into endless amounts of trouble if she was caught. But she had nowhere to go. It was almost pitch black in the corridor; she went to cast _lumos_ and realised she didn’t even have her _wand_ with her, seven save her! A door opened and closed a short distance away; if she didn’t move soon then she would get caught by a teacher or a prefect, and this time she didn’t even have Aegon with her to share the blame, like they could have that night after the library. Bloody hell. Arya almost kicked herself for not remembering it before. The library! The ideal place to lay low for a couple of hours; it was the perfect labyrinth of tall stacks, dark corners and comfy chairs. And Gendry Waters was probably there right this second, leaning over textbooks and running his hands through his thick, dark hair. She’d never managed to find him and tell him she wasn’t going to make it to the library that evening to help him with his essay, the least she can do is to go and see if he still needed any help, right? And she needed a distraction from the horrific kiss she had just had to witness between the boy she liked and one of the prettiest girls in school, that he was now _bound_ to be in love with. In her inebriated mind this was the best possible idea she could have ever had.

After a few minutes of searching she spotted Gendry, slouched in an oversized armchair on the second floor, feet propped up high on the table in front of him, reading a book. She stealthily slipped along the adjacent bookcase, emerging at the last second and sliding into the armchair, causing him to jump a foot into the air along with the book, which Arya caught at the last second with the unerring touch of a seeker. “Hello.” She whispered, realising too late that the oversized armchair was probably only made for two Arya-sized people, not an Arya-sized person _and_ a Gendry-sized person; she was almost sitting on his lap.

“What the _hell_ …” He tailed off, wild eyed and again wearing that _look_ ; the one that Arya usually associated with the confundus charm.

“Sorry. Did I scare you?”

“Where did you _come_ from?”

“My mother says I was a gift from the gods.”

“Unlikely.” He scoffed, taking the book from her and flicking to his page again. He didn’t mention her leg draped over his; maybe he was being polite.

“Rude. You have to be nice to me, I’m here to help you, you know.”

“Help me? You smell like a pub.”

“Liquid courage. Had to have a drink to psych myself up to spending time with you, didn’t i?”

“You sure it was just the one drink?”

“Maybe it was two, I’m not sure,” she joked back, hoping she was erring on the side of endearingly tipsy, rather than annoyingly drunk. She could feel herself sobering up the longer she sat in the cold library, but heat was radiating from Gendry next to her. How could she not, when they were squeezed in so close? “Look, do you want my help or not?” She asked, getting ready to stand up again and embark on the long walk back to Gryffindor tower. He sighed, considering her for a long second before leaning forward and rifling through some parchment, pulling out a half-written essay.

“This is what I have so far.” She leant towards the parchment he was holding out, skimming through what he’d written.

“Not bad for someone that didn’t know anything about the Roynar this morning,” She smirked, before making some suggestions about alterations, and what to do next. Half an hour later and the essay was completely done, scribbled down by Gendry from Arya’s whispered commands, almost entirely from information she had proudly recalled from memory. She was now cold, almost completely sober, and _absolutely_ aware that her leg was still thrown over his. And she wasn’t unhappy about it. In fact, for the last half an hour she’d increasingly thought about ways she could somehow get even closer to the quidditch captain; catching herself looking at the ways he ran his hands through his hair when he was thinking, or how he chewed the end of his quill before starting a new sentence.

The candle had almost burnt down to the wick now, casting a flickering light over them both that just seemed to increase her desire to get closer to him, to throw the other leg over so she was sat fully on his lap. An absolute whirlwind of emotions was ploughing through her head; anger and hurt aimed at Aegon, confusion at why she and Gendry were suddenly on more than speaking terms, and something that she could only identify as lust, for the boy she was squeezed into the armchair with. She wanted to scream. “What’s the time?” She whispered instead, prompting him to glance at his watch and almost do a double-take. “Shit, it’s almost 1am!” Silently as possible (and much to Arya’s disappointment), they both jumped up from the armchair. Gendry grabbed his things and threw them quickly into a leather rucksack, slinging it over his shoulder and starting to move towards the eastern exit of the library. “No!” She hissed, grabbing his arm and tugging in the opposite direction, “This way has more places to hide if someone comes the other way!” As they silently slipped through the library and into the corridor, she realised that her hand had somehow made its way down his arm and intertwined itself together between his fingers. She wasn’t sure that the gesture was entirely her fault, either.

Halfway back to the tower, Gendrys’ footsteps faltered and he suddenly stopped, listening for a second before silently ripping open the nearest tapestry against a wall and pulling Arya inside the small alcove with him. The niche was barely enough to hold one of them, so she was drawn up flat against him, her back to his chest and one of his muscled arms wrapped around her stomach, the other across her chest and shoulders. She clutched at them for dear life, simultaneously in a desperate attempt not to fall over, and out of fear of them both being caught. She could just make out a sliver of corridor from the gap between the wall and tapestry, and seconds later a pair of silvery blue ghosts glided round the corner, having a quiet conversation that she was too nervous to try and make out. She silently thanked the gods for Gendrys’ impeccable hearing, sharpened as a result of years of listening out for bludgers whizzing past during quidditch matches. The ghosts soon disappeared, but neither Gendry of Arya moved; the seconds on Gendrys watch continuing to tick by, as they both listened out for any more movement in the corridor. Five minutes must have passed before Arya felt the arms relax slightly from around her, but he still didn’t move. She was painfully aware that he was pressed up against her back still, and was sure that she could feel something…else starting to press up against her, too. The thought gave her a little thrill of excitement, and a her stomach seemed to do a Forel Feint as she slowly turned around, careful not to disturb the tapestry that was now behind her. “That was close.” She whispered, lamely. “Does saving me from being expelled just now count as my favour because I’d still really like-” She was cut off from finishing her sentence by the crash of lips against hers, demanding and impatient, like they’d waited a long time for this. She responded eagerly, tiptoeing and reaching up towards his neck at the same time to try and lessen the distance between them both, before hands reached down and grabbed her thighs, lifting her up like she was made of air. She crossed her legs around Gendrys’ waist as he roughly pushed her up against the side of the wall, closing the distance between their bodies in the dark and kissing her deeper, eliciting a low moan that he now covered up with another urgent kiss.

She wasn’t sure how long they had stayed in the alcove, kissing and biting and enjoying the roughness and spontaneity and danger of it all; but when she finally reached her dormitory again she was giddy, and still slightly breathless. She stripped as quietly as she could and slid into bed, not bothering with pajamas; she drew all of the thick crimson curtains around the four-poster and sunk into her pillow, confident that she would be having the best nights’ sleep in over a week.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so, since a few people have been asking, some confirmation on a few character ages/family connections etc (I have not revealed all, as some are future plot points!)  
> Arya = 16  
> Sansa = 18  
> Bran = 14  
> Rickon = 9  
> Robb & Jon (who for the purposes of this story, are twins) = 21  
> All Starks are the children of Catelyn and Ned- no R+L = J. Lyanna in this universe never had a child. 
> 
> Aegon & Daenerys = 17 (who also are twins in this story) They are the children of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia (who was Pentoshi, and died in childbed). Older brother was Viserys, who would have been the same age as Brienne/Tyrion (32/33) if he had not committed suicide. Aegon and Daenerys were raised by their father, who never spoke of their mother again-and who died when they were 2 years old. Raised by their grandmother, Rhaella. 
> 
> The Baratheon children in this story (Joffrey, Myrcella & Tommen) are all the children of Robert and Cercei. No twincest. 
> 
> Hope this clears things up a bit! Leave a comment and let me know what you think of the story so far! I’m very new to this so advice and encouragement are both appreciated!!!

* * *

Madame Mordane had forbidden Arya from quidditch practice for the next two weeks, as well as vetoed her usual morning run, so her normal Sunday morning routine of an early start and some fresh air was temporarily on hold. She was up at the crack of dawn anyway out of habit, and miraculously hangover free, so decided instead to get an early start on the mountain of work she had yet to catch up on. The other occupants of the dormitory were sound asleep still so she rose from the bed quietly, resisting the urge to suffocate Val with a pillow as she crept past her. Aryas clothes were left in a jumbled pile at the foot of her bed, from where she had stripped them off the previous night; she tried not to think about who she’d _wanted_ to have stripped them off her. She pushed the memory of the encounter with Gendry to the back of her mind, deciding that she would only allow herself to think about it after being productive for a couple of hours, at least. She showered and dressed, pulling on leggings and a massively oversized jumper, as well as thick socks and her usual boots, before shoving some essentials in a rucksack and heading downstairs. First stop was the kitchens and a brief chat with the house elves, who dutifully plied her with freshly baked scones and blackcurrant jam, as well as some still-warm pumpkin pasties that she couldn’t wait to devour as soon as she reached her destination. A short walk across the grounds and she reached it; Sandor’s cabin on the edge of the forbidden forest, already emitting a thin spiral of smoke from its chimney.

Professor Clegane had sighed and looked irritated as he had pulled open the heavy wooden door, but let her in nonetheless; she knew his grumpy demeanour was all an act anyway. She spilled the baked goods on the table along with her Care of Magical Creatures textbook, and began chatting animatedly about her week in the hospital wing while he chewed on a pasty and listened, quietly tending to a kettle on the stove. His dog Hound snored in the corner of the kitchen.

“Heard they banned that Bolton boy from playing for the rest of the year.” He grunted, pouring strong black tea into a mug in front of Arya, then setting down the sugar bowl and transferring three heaped spoons into her mug automatically-just the way she liked it.

“The next three games,” She mumbled through a mouthful of scone. “He’ll be back by January, I reckon.”

“He’s had detention with Martell, too. As part of the punishment. The stupid git’s been cleaning out the dungeons for the past week, scrubbing cauldrons and alphabetising his store cupboards for him.”

“Least it’s something I guess.” She shrugged, not blinking an eye at Sandor calling a pupil a ‘stupid git’- firstly because Ramsey Bolton _was_ a stupid git, and secondly because she’d been hearing him refer to people as such for years. Sandor was one of the youngest professors at the school, only a couple of years older than Robb and Jon- and was friends with them both too; having worked with Jon in Romania when he first left school. Unfortunately, an accident with one of the younger dragons had left Sandor with burns along one side of his face and chest, and so he had returned from Europe to pursue the slightly less dangerous career of a teacher. The young twenty-something had grown his hair out long to cover his facial scars, and often adopted the gruff persona of a crotchety old man to keep others at bay and not ask questions. He was a good teacher though, and if you ignored the grumpiness for long enough then he started to drop the façade as well, like he did with Arya. He often acted like he didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything-but would always remember how many sugars you had in your tea, or could tell when you were upset and trying to hide it. He was probably one of Arya’s favourite people-something she would never _ever_ admit to him.

“I’m surprised you haven’t tried to retaliate, yet.”

“I haven’t ruled it out.” She warned. She hadn’t- all the alone time in the hospital wing had afforded her plenty of ideas for revenge; the problem was that she couldn’t choose which one she wanted to attempt first.

“Has Jon threatened to kill him yet?”

“In very creative and colourful ways, yes.” She grinned, noting the way Sandor’s face lit up at the idea of Jon doing such a thing.

“Look forward to seeing him soon.” He said, taking a long drag of his tea and staring into the distance out of the window, as though deep in thought.

“I mean, I don’t know when he’ll next be back from Romania but yeah…yeah me too.” Sandor quickly changed the conversation then, questioning her about how much of his work she had managed to catch up on; scolding her like a proper teacher when she revealed that the answer was none. She stayed until lunchtime and managed to finish both of his essays, using both the textbook and Sandor himself as sources of information. She thought it had to be the best Care of Magical Creatures essay she’d ever written.

Sandor disappeared into the forbidden forest with fang, stating that he had to go and check some traps, as she walked the opposite direction; subconsciously choosing the route that steered towards the quidditch pitch. Training would surely be over now, she thought, if it had ever happened at all. She imagined that Daario, Alys and Meera were all too hungover to safely fly and Gendry…well –he’d had a late night. She felt a little thrill of excitement and foreboding as she walked past the empty quidditch pitch, not sure if she had wanted to see the broad-shouldered captain out there or not.

She had definitely enjoyed the passionate kiss behind the tapestry, but wasn’t sure what was meant to happen next. Her and Waters _weren’t_ friends; the only line of communication between them both was on the quidditch pitch- so usually just a lot of shouting and disagreements about tactics and her lack of concentration. He was grumpy most of the time, bull-headed and downright rude; apart from those few snatched moments recently when they had actually had a real conversation, she hadn’t even _thought_ about Gendry as more than someone that was just mildly irritating to her. She was sure he had felt the same about her, too. But the more time they spent together, the more she could feel herself becoming attracted to the brooding, slightly mysterious boy. When they had kissed, she had felt almost released, like something had been building up inside her for a long time and she hadn’t even realised. Daenerys and Meera had been right about her and Gendry also, she thought with a wry smile; they’d just guessed something that hadn’t yet happened.

Nothing that had happened with Gendry had changed the fact that she really did like Aegon, though. Probably more than she had let on, or even realised herself-that is until she had seen him kissing Val the previous night. The fact that he had been so _enthusiastic_ about it though; well that just proven what she’d always feared, deep in the back of her mind-that he didn’t like her as much as she liked him. She had known that he was a prolific flirt and that he could (and often did) charm his way around any girl he wanted, why should she have expected to be any different just because they were friends first? She was naïve to think she could change him, even if she had wanted to. And she would just have to deal with the consequences of that. She wondered how long she could manage to avoid him before they had _that_ inevitable conversation. Besides, the whole aim for her sixth year had been to avoid trouble; something that she was most definitely not doing while pining over boys and getting snogged in secret after curfew. She needed to reprioritise, drastically. And try not to be alone with Aegon Targaryen until she was sure she could resist whatever little spell it was that he seemed to put her under.

*

Over the course of the next few days, Arya consulted the Marauders Map literally hundreds of times; managing to choose routes around the castle that simultaneously avoided Gendry and Aegon both-something that she was quite impressed with, given the fact that they all belonged to the same house. After the first day of her erratic movements and constant map studying, Dany and Meera had cornered her demanding an explanation, which she had half given. Amid the usual hustle and bustle of Charms class, she had filled them in on everything that had happened with Gendry-omitting the fact that she was also avoiding Aegon, too. They had both been unbearably smug about the fact that they had predicted what was going to happen before even she had, but had promised not to tell anyone else, or (this one was mainly aimed at Meera) speak about it in front of Gendry himself. Her luck ran out on Wednesday however, as she was descending the steps towards Care of Magical Creatures- the only class she didn’t share with either Meera or Daenerys, and therefore the only class she was unable to use them as human shields. Before even glancing behind her, Arya somehow knew that the hurried slapping of shoes on stone belonged to Aegon; something that was confirmed when he shouted her name and skidded to a halt next to her, robes and scruffy platinum hair whipping round in the wind.

“Oh, hello.” She said, still descending. She had planned for this. She was going to simply act like nothing was amiss and hopefully he would leave her alone. She still needed some time to try and cool off a bit, from whatever short-lived _thing_ they had had.

“I’ve barely seen you all week! Where have you been?”

“Oh, you know-lots of work to catch up on…I missed all of last week so…” She trailed off, aware that the six foot tall Aegon was actually struggling to keep stride with her now, she was walking so fast.

“Right. Yeah-of course,” he hesitated, before blurting out “You left pretty suddenly on Saturday night.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t feeling very well. Don’t think blood-replenishing potion and wine go together very well!” She half-heartedly laughed at her own joke; it sounded fake and hollow, even to her.

“No, of course not-I’d forgotten... Erm-are you feeling better now then?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“That’s good.” The pair continued down towards Sandor’s hut in uncomfortable silence; the usual easy banter gone. For some reason Sandor had set them the dullest task ever for their lesson; the collection of Fwooper feathers from their habitat a short distance inside the forest. In case of accidental exposure to Fwooper song (something that could induce madness and extreme paranoia), they had been instructed to wear earmuffs, which was perfectly fine with Arya; it meant that Aegon couldn’t try and make conversation with her. Assigned as a pair to the same area, they worked in silence for the hour, sweating slightly from the magical enchantments that caused the habitat to mirror the African Savannah where the birds usually lived. Usually a lesson like this would have been a rare and welcome break, where they would have used the hour to mess around-now all Arya wanted to do was avoid the confused and slightly hurt looks that Aegon kept shooting her from across the forest. Whenever he wasn’t looking however, she couldn’t help but furtively glance in his direction either; trying not to notice the way he loosened his tie, or the thin sliver of tanned stomach that he revealed as he pulled his jumper over his head. The only contact they’d had all lesson was when he’d asked (through an amusing charades-style performance that she’d tried very hard not to laugh at) to borrow a hairband; and she had lent him her grey velvet scrunchie. She watched him scrape back his chin-length waves into a half-up do, telling herself that she had no right to feel as happy as she did, looking at the dark velvet contrasting with his light blond hair; it was no more significant than lending him a quill. 

They walked together back up to the castle in silence, which somehow seemed slightly less awkward than the one they had taken in the opposite direction a short while ago. That was until Val came strutting across the courtyard with Alys and Meera in tow, clearly having just finished their lesson, too. Arya unconsciously stiffened, her body launching into the same fight or flight reflex she’d experienced every time she’d seen the girl over the past few days. She couldn’t help but think that she’d like to choose ‘fight’, given half a chance. But Val (almost disappointingly) was unaware of Arya’s newfound distaste for her, and so the chance did not look likely to arise anytime soon. The beautiful blonde smiled widely instead, and started waving, changing direction to steer the others this way too.

“Hi Aegon! Hi Arya!” She started to cheerfully ask Aegon about how his day had been so far, but Arya wasn’t listening; far more telling was the way she batted her eyelashes at the boy, and flicked her long hair over her shoulder dramatically, almost hitting Meera in the face. Arya’s best friend scowled openly, and jerked her head to the side, indicating to Arya that she wanted to be a part of this conversation just as little as she did. They made their excuses and left quickly, Meera doing a spot-on impression of the hair flip and an exaggerated strut that had Arya in stitches, as soon as they were out of eyesight of the others. It was the most Arya had laughed all day.

*

Meera and Arya spent a very unproductive Friday afternoon in the common room; listening to the radio and failing to complete any work that they had been set, not paying mind to the slowly darkening sky outside. Arya had just finished fixing her eyebrows after a particularly volatile game of exploding snap when she noticed the common room was suddenly a lot quieter; it was almost time for the Halloween feast-and the reveal of the Triwizard Champions.

When they entered the candlelit Great Hall it was almost full already; The Goblet of Fire was in pride of place at the teachers table and emitting delicate pale golden flames, instead of its previous crimson ones. Joining the teachers table tonight were the two men from the ministry that had announced the tournament previously; Mr. Varys looked tense and hassled, whereas Renly Baratheon was beaming and winking at various students, looking thrilled to be there again. Meera was leading the way to the table, and to her immense discomfort, had led her to the seat directly opposite Aegon and Val. Dany was on Aegons other side, and Daario soon jumped onto the bench next to Meera.

“Take one last look ladies; when I become champion I’ll be so surrounded by women that you won’t even get a look in.”

Arya scoffed. “And when you _don’t_ become champion, Daario?”

“Arya dearest, you wound me.”

“Better being wounded by her, rather than getting trampled by a Hippogriff or something in one of the tasks,” said Meera.

“Oh- I don’t know about that…Lady Stark could cast a nasty hex if she wanted to.”

“Do _not_ call me Lady Stark.”

“Sorry, Lady Stark. Well-if it’s not me, I hope it’s Margaery Tyrell, then.” He said, nodding towards the Ravenclaw table, where the girl was surrounded by a small circle of friends, who were all listening raptly to her speak.

“Only because you fancy her!” Aegon burst out now, clearly offended that Daario’s next choice of champion hadn’t been him.

“Yeah, because she’s hot as fuck, that’s why!”

“Oh, I don’t know-I’d pick Aegon over Margaery Tyrell any day.” Val piped up next, openly winking at him. Arya felt the sudden urge to vomit.

“ _I_ think it should be Tormund,” she said truthfully, not noticing the seventh year walking past as she spoke.

“Arya Stark, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.” The giant of a boy smirked and sat down one seat away from Arya, leaving the space in-between open; and to her absolute horror his best friend immediately filled it. Arya felt colour rising to her cheeks as she met the ice blue eyes of Gendry Waters. Thankfully the feast started mere seconds after, and Arya immediately began piling food onto her plate and began to eat, hoping it would deter him from conversation. She had managed to avoid him all week and wasn’t sure where they stood. In any case, what would she say to him, surrounded by all of her friends? She wondered briefly if Tormund knew. Meera was desperately trying to repress her laughter next to her, clearly amused by how uncomfortable Arya was at the whole situation. She poked her hard in the ribs.

Perhaps as a result of her discomfort, Arya’s usual enthusiasm for the feast was somewhat less than it was normally; she found herself wishing for it to be over as quickly as possible, so they could find out the champions and she could go and hide in her dormitory. Judging by the craned necks and fidgeting of the other students in the hall, she wasn’t the only one. Now done with her food and impatiently fiddling with her cutlery, Arya shifted to see if Mormont had finished eating, and sent her fork clattering to the floor. She reached down to get it just as Gendry did the same, and awkwardly brushed fingers and made eye contact while leaning backwards off the bench.

“We need to talk,” he muttered seriously, handing her the fork. His fingers lingered on hers a couple of seconds longer than were necessary, not breaking eye contact.

“Not now!” she hissed back, pulling herself back onto the bench. He leant towards her again, speaking quietly into her ear so no one could hear.

“Find me in the library later.”

“Fine.” She turned away from him, trying not to think about the consequences of what _that_ had meant. Determinedly she focused on Mormont now getting to his feet, and tried to ignore the laser stare of Aegon from across the table, who was now eyeing Arya as if she had grown an extra head.

As soon as Mormont was fully risen, all chatter within the hall died down immediately. On either side of him, Professors Martell and Bharbo had sat up a little straighter in their seats, watching the goblet just as eagerly as any of the students. Thankfully Arya hadn’t run into Professor Martell since the weird incident down at the lake, and hoped it would continue to stay that way, she shivered slightly, remembering the way he had stared at her and Gendry. A quick glance behind her and she could see his eyes were fixed on the Beauxbatons professor too, brow furrowed; he must have been thinking the same thing.

“The goblet seems almost ready to make its decision”, he said, hardly needing to raise his voice-the hall was the quietest she’d ever seen. “As the names of the champions are called, I would ask them to come to the top of the hall and proceed through into the trophy room, where they will be given further instruction.” He took out his wand and took a long sweeping wave, extinguishing all candles except the ones inside the carved pumpkins on the table, casting everything in a dim orange light. The goblet stood out even more now, and had begun to emit red sparks from its basin. Suddenly, the sparks shot up higher, followed by a tongue of flame and a charred piece of parchment, which Mormont caught deftly. The whole hall gasped and then immediately fell silent, as Mormont began to read out the name written upon it.

“The champion for Durmstrang…will be Khal Drogo.” A storm of applause and cheering swept the hall, loudest from the Slytherin table at the far end. Drogo rose from the table and lumbered forward towards the trophy room, disappearing just as another tongue of flame shot out from the goblet again. The hall fell deadly silent again as Mormont read out the name on the second piece of paper.

“The champion for Beauxbatons…will be Trystane Martell.” The hall erupted into applause once more and everyone looked round for Martell, who rose from the far end of the Gryffindor table, next to Sansa of all people. Doran Martell beamed even more than his son as he walked through the same door that Drogo had just disappeared through. Silence fell again but this time more stiff with excitement, more tense; the next champion would be from Hogwarts. A few seconds passed before the goblet emitted another chimney of sparks and the flame shot up with the last name.

“The Hogwarts champion,” Mormont read with a smile, “Is Asha Greyjoy.” The uproar from the Slytherin table was deafening. Every single one of them had stood up; clapping the captain of their quidditch team as she confidently strode to the front of the hall, grinning broadly.

“At least it wasn’t Baratheon.” Arya shouted to Meera, barely able to hear herself over the Slytherins, who were continuing to roar their congratulations.

“I heard he was too craven to even enter.” She shouted back, scowling across the hall at the Slytherins, who were being told to quieten down by their head of house, Professor Martell. Joffrey Baratheon, missing a chance for fame and glory? Surely not, she thought, searching for his face in the crowded hall. Mormont had started speaking again as the noise died down however, and so she turned back towards the front of the hall.

“Well, now we have our three champions. I’m sure I can count on all of you to give them your support for-” he stopped midway through his sentence, as the crow on his shoulder began to caw loudly, and within a couple of seconds it became clear why. The fire in the goblet had begun to emit red sparks again. Suddenly, the sparks shot higher, and another long flame was emitted-along with a fourth piece of parchment. Automatically, Mormont reached out towards the cup and snatched the parchment out of the air. He held it out before him with an unreadable blank expression on his face, almost like he was trying not to betray his true sentiments. He looked at the parchment for a long moment, and in turn everyone else looked at him, rapt with anticipation. And then he cleared his throat and read out-

“Arya Stark.”


	7. Chapter 7

Arya sat frozen, aware that every head in the great hall had turned to look at her. She didn’t move, sure that Mormont had misread the parchment, or that she was dreaming; surely she must have just dozed off in the common room or something? This couldn’t be happening. There was no applause now, just silence; and then the room slowly began to hiss like a snake, as everyone started to whisper. Arya shrunk further back down into the bench, as if she was hoping that it would engulf her whole. Professor Dondarrion had got to his feet and walked towards Mormont, who had searched for her face in the mass of students, and now appeared to be considering her in the same way that you would consider a confusing piece of text; staring without really seeing, frowning as if trying to work out the meaning. She turned to Meera, and then Daenerys across the table; both of them stared back, deadpan. Meera’s mouth had dropped open slightly, forming a perfect ‘o’. Beyond them, the rest of Gryffindor table was staring blankly too.

Back at the top of the hall, Professor Mormont was seemingly having a quiet disagreement with Professor Dondarrion. Her head of house was gesturing towards Arya now, but was seemingly cut off mid-sentence by Mormont, who held up his hand slightly, indicating that their conversation was over.

“Arya Stark!” Mormont called again. “Arya! Up here, if you please.” Arya was still glued to her seat. Meera reached over and gently pried Aryas hands off the table, where she had been gripping the edge so tight that her knuckles had turned white. Arya still hadn’t moved, so Meera then gave her a slight shove, finally succeeding in getting the girl to her feet. Shaking, she scrambled over the bench, tripping over her robes as she straightened. She set off up the gap between the deathly silent Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables. The distance between her and the teachers table felt like it was increasing as she walked, and she stumbled again as she caught the eyes of Bran, who was looking up at her like she had just slapped him round the face. After what seemed like years, she reached Mormont, feeling the stares of all of the other teachers upon her. She wanted to burst into tears. Mormont wasn’t wearing an expression of happiness like he had been when Asha had her name drawn a minute previously.

“Through the door please, Miss Stark.” He said, peering down at her with that same cold, appraising look. She moved past him, and along the staff table. Not one of them smiled. Even Sandor, seated right at the end of the table, didn’t nod or show any other sign of greeting. He simply looked astonished.

Upon entering the trophy room, she saw the champions all silhouetted around the fire. Khal Drogo was leaning up against the mantle, showing off his considerable height and bulk as he looked into the flames. Trystane Martell was elegantly reclined in an armchair, the fire highlighting his strong cheekbones and slightly pouted lips. Asha Greyjoy seemed most impressive of all she thought, observing the girl; she was straddling a hard-backed chair, arms crossed over its back, and had a look of grim determination on her face that Arya had seen her wear before countless times at quidditch matches. They all looked impressive; like true champions. She felt like a fraud, a fake in their midst. Martell noticed her enter first.

“What is it?” he said. “Do they want us back in the Hall?” He thought she had come to deliver a message. She didn’t know how to explain what had just happened. She just stood, frozen still again, opening her mouth to speak and then closing it again, realising she had no idea what she would say. There was the sound of footsteps behind her, and Renly Baratheon entered the room. He put an arm round Arya’s shoulders, squeezing her shoulder in a reassuring way as he half pulled her towards the fireplace and the other three champions.

“Extraordinary!” he exclaimed, squeezing her shoulder once more. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen...my lady,” he added, nodding at Asha who had now stood along with Martell and Drogo, their backs to the fire. “May I introduce…unbelievable though it may seem-the _fourth_ Triwizard champion!”

Drogo’s expression darkened and he straightened up slightly, showing off his massive height. Asha looked as though she would spit fire. Martell however, laughed. “Very funny joke, Mr Baratheon.”

“Joke?” he repeated, bewildered. “No-no joke. I assure you, I do not have the creativity to come up with a joke quite as inexplicable and exciting as this. Young Miss Stark’s name just came out of the Goblet of Fire. She is now a Triwizard Champion, same as you all.” Arya felt as though her legs were going to give way from underneath her; she was quite glad that Renly Baratheon was still squeezing her shoulder so tightly; it was probably the only thing holding her up at that moment.

“But-she can’t compete.” Asha said, bluntly. “She’s not even old enough yet.”

“Well, as I said, it is extraordinary.” Baratheon ran his free hand through his already perfectly tousled black hair, giving Arya a weird sense of deja-vu. “But as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety precaution. And as her name has _already_ come out of the goblet…I mean…I’m not the expert on the rules, we’ll have to consult-” The door behind them suddenly opened with a bang, and a large group of people bustled in: Professor Mormont was first, closely flanked by Professors Martell and Dondarrion. The other headteachers followed, and the rear was brought up by Mr Varys, who now looked more stressed than ever. Arya hear rumbling on the other side of the door as the Great Hall was evacuated by hundreds of students, doubtless all chatting about the events that had just happened. She felt oddly detached from them all. Professor Dondarrion held back to shut the door, muffling the sounds, before coming to join the semi-circle of adults that had now congregated around Arya and the other champions.

“Professor Bharbo!” said Khal Drogo, in a rough grunt. “They say this… this little girl is fourth champion!” Somewhere under her numb disbelief, Arya felt a twinge of anger. Little girl? She was only a year younger than him! Although she supposed she may have looked a lot younger, owing to her size and general resemblance to a small boy.

“What is the meaning of this, Mormont?” Professor Bharbo demanded, drawing himself up to his full (and quite imposing) height.

“Yes, I’d quite like to know that myself,” said Beauxbatons Professor Martell mildly. His gaze fell upon Arya and she shivered, as he fixated upon her that same stare as before, by the lake. “Surely it is not in the rules to allow _two_ students from the same school to compete? Or am I mistaken?” His tone suggested he knew he was not. Arya felt like asking if it was against the rules for his son to compete, seeing as Martell himself would be one of the judges. She decided against this however, sensing that she was probably in enough trouble, and did not need to create any more.

“I was under the impression that your enchantments around the Goblet of Fire would prevent such mistakes, Mormont” Bharbo continued. “Did you not tell me yourself that your age line would be the most powerful deterrent for any underage contenders?”

“It is no-one’s fault but Miss Stark’s, Bharbo,” the Red Viper said softly. Arya was well aware that her potions professor was a powerful wizard, and that he startled a few of the younger students with his venomous nature; but she had actually never been scared of him until now. She had never been his favourite student; too insolent during his classes, and constantly starting fights with students from his house, but he had never singled her out like this before. Never in front of other teachers, anyway. His black eyes glinted with nastiness as he continued; “She has been crossing lines ever since she arrived here-”

“Thank you, Oberyn.” Mormont said gruffly, and Martell went quiet, instead turning on his heel and beginning to pace the room like a caged animal. Mormont stepped forward, bending down slightly so that he was level with Arya’s eyes; she felt a vague tingling sensation, like she had just been put through a muggle x-ray machine.

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Arya?” He asked calmly.

“No.” she said. She had intended her voice to sound firm and determined, but instead she just sounded wobbly, like she was about to cry. Renly Baratheons hand, still around her shoulders, gave her another quick squeeze. Even though she didn’t know him well, it was oddly comforting; almost older-brother like. The other adults around her were not so consoling; The Red Viper actually made a derisive noise from where he had stalked across the room. Mormont was undeterred.

“Did you ask an older student to put your name in the Goblet of Fire?”

“ _No_.”

“She is lying, of course!” Bharbo exclaimed. Martell was shaking his head, still staring at Arya with a somewhat distant expression.

“Well, she could not have crossed the age line. I’m sure we are all agreed on that?” Dondarrion chipped in, now.

“Perhaps the line was faulty, Mormont?” Martell suggested, calm as ever, while his brother still stalked around the room.

“It is possible…” Mormont began tactfully, but was cut off by Dondarrion, who had scoffed.

“Jeor, you know perfectly well that is _not_ possible.”

“Well then how _did_ her name come out of the Goblet of Fire?” Bharbo asked to the room at large. No-one responded. Arya was terrified. She had hoped someone else would have had an answer to that. Mormont was staring off into the middle distance, lost in thought.

Renly Baratheon now spoke up, changing the direction of conversation slightly, and aiming a question at Mr Varys, who was the furthest away from the fire, and so was bathed in flickering shadows that made him look slightly ethereal.

“Rugen, what’s the protocol here?”

The bald man sighed, but spoke in his usual soft voice; “However the name ended up in the Goblet…we have no choice but to follow the rules. The Goblet of Fire has presented Miss Starks name, along with the other three champions. Those whose names are chosen _must_ compete; they are now bound to do so by the enchantments placed upon the Goblet itself. We do not know the consequences she will face if she does not.” Arya’s stomach sank, if possible, even lower than it had been since her name had been drawn. There was no escaping this.

Numbly, Arya listened as they were given instructions for the first task, but she was barely aware of what was being said. There had been a loud ringing in her ears, ever since Mr Varys had uttered the words “must compete”. She only realised that the room was slowly emptying as a weight seemed to lift off her; Renly Baratheon had finally removed his arm from around her shoulders and was looking down at her with a worried expression on his face.

“Arya, are you okay?” He asked, kindly.

“Yes.” She answered determinedly, though she could hear her own voice shake as she said it. He surveyed her face once more, before giving her shoulder another reassuring squeeze and saying goodbye, following his colleague Varys out of the room.

Mormont, Dondarrion and Martell were the only ones left, the students and teachers from the other schools clearly having departed whilst Arya had zoned out.

“Asha, Arya, I suggest you both head back to your common rooms now,” He smiled at the both of them. “I expect your housemates are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this opportunity to make a lot of noise and mess.” The girls left together, but as soon as they rounded the corner of the Great Hall, Asha turned on her heel and stalked off towards the dungeons without a word. She had expected that. The quidditch captain had never disliked Arya; in fact they had got on semi-well whenever they had interacted before. She was perhaps the only Slytherin besides Theon that Arya would ever have willingly spoken to. But now Asha wouldn’t be the only Hogwarts champion; she had to share that title with Arya-someone who she undoubtedly thought had entered the tournament through fraudulent means. And she was clearly very unhappy about it. Arya’s life was going to be made hell by the Slytherins now, she thought miserably, as she climbed the marble stairs up towards Gryffindor tower.

Would anyone except her friends believe her, or would they all think she had somehow entered her name into the goblet too? She had thought about it admittedly, right after the first announcement was made. She’d fantasized about winning, about achieving fame by her own means, rather than simply being known for her famous family name. Arya Stark: Triwizard Champion. But that dream had quickly dissolved when she saw the age line for herself, and also had time to consider the consequences. As Daenerys had pointed out, people had _died_ before. She was now going to be facing tasks that would undoubtedly be very dangerous, not to mention performed in front of hundreds of people, with competitors that were older than her by a year or more. She got stage fright before every quidditch match; she dreaded to think what the anxiety before the first task would do to her. And then there was the first task itself…

She was surprised to find herself at the portrait already, her moping having consumed her thoughts so much that she didn’t even realise. Taking a deep breath, she said the password and braced herself for the cold stares and irate looks that she was sure to get once she stepped inside. The portrait swung forward and she stepped in; there was a seconds’ silence before the room erupted into noise. Next thing she knew, she was being pulled forward into the room by Daario and Grenn, and found herself in front of the apparent entirety of Gryffindor House, all of whom were whistling, applauding and chanting her name. She felt like a deer in the headlights, almost falling over in shock; Daario caught her, shouting over the racket.

“You should have told me you’d entered!” He looked deeply impressed; any annoyance he had at not being champion was either forgotten or very well hidden.

“How did you get past the age line?” Grenn shouted next, steering her deeper into the room, where the Gryffindors began to form a kind of screaming, jumping mosh pit around her.

“I didn’t-” She started to shout back, but realised it was hopeless. No one could hear her, and they wouldn’t believe her anyway even if they could. Tormund now stepped in front of her, grin etched across his face.

“Well Stark, if it couldn’t be me, at least it was a Gryffindor.”

For over half an hour, she desperately tried to escape the common room and head up towards her dormitory, but was blocked at every turn. No one wanted to hear how she hadn’t put her own name in the goblet, or even noticed that she was increasingly close to tears. Someone had dug up a dusty Gryffindor flag from somewhere and draped it round Arya’s shoulders so that it resembled some kind of crimson and gold cloak. Someone else had unearthed a stash of butterbeer, and the older students were passing round a bottle of Dragon Barrel Brandy, getting more and more rowdy with every swig. Daario had even ducked underneath her at one point, picking her up so that she was sitting on his shoulders and dancing round the common room. She desperately tried to look for Meera, or the platinum blonde head of a Targaryen, or even Sansa; just to speak to someone that would _understand_. 

Eventually she spotted a white-blond head disappearing through the fat lady, and quickly changed her escape tactic; slipping through Daario’s clutches once more, she ducked underneath the outstretched arms of a drunken Alys and Val, and sprinted the short distance towards the door. She paused, listening for a second to determine which way the footsteps had gone before quickly following them left, where they echoed around a thin corridor, and Arya caught a glimpse of Aegon at the end, ducking through a tapestry. She followed her friend, deciding that whatever weirdness had happened in the last week, she could forget now; it seemed to pale in comparison to this. And if she was being honest with herself, she just wanted a hug.

She burst through the tapestry and up the hidden stairs behind, emerging into the small turret room that was empty except for Aegon, who was wearing an odd expression on his face that Arya couldn’t quite place. Was it confusion? Hurt? He looked like a kicked puppy.

“Where’ve you been?” she asked, her words coming out more aggressively than she had intended.

“In the common room,” he replied flatly. “Watching your little show.”

“My little…Aegon what on _earth_ are you-”

“Oh and congratulations, I guess. Thought you’d have least told me you were gonna do it, though. Must have been a damn good ageing potion, to get you across Mormont’s line.” Arya stared at her friend, dumfounded.

“I didn’t _use_ an anti-ageing potion. I didn’t-”

“No? Get your new friend Waters to hop over the line and enter you instead?” Arya stared at him, wide-eyed. Did he know about her and Gendry, too? Aegon was truly grimacing at her now, and Arya felt cold dread start to set in her bones. She suddenly remembered the Gryffindor banner tied around her neck and attempted to untie it, scrabbling at the knots that Tormund had tied too tightly. Aegon watched her struggle, not moving a muscle to help. “It’s okay, Arya,” he said now, speaking slightly louder. “You can tell me the truth. If you don’t want anyone else to know then fine, but I don’t get why you’re bothering to lie to _me_. What’s the point anyway now? You clearly haven’t got into any trouble for it, they’re letting you enter.” Arya was truly speechless. Aegon, _her_ Aegon thought she was a liar and a fraud. She felt the tears rising, her throat tightening up. She finally undid the knots on the Gryffindor banner, and threw it to the ground as she snarled back at him.

“I did _not_ put my name in that goblet.”

“Yeah, ok.” He said, still using that same flat tone of voice, but matching her for loudness now. They were close to shouting. “Only you were going to-we talked about it, or don’t you remember?” She did remember. That was the night they had first kissed. It seemed years ago, now. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Yeah? Well you’re doing a fucking good impression of it!” She was truly yelling now, trying to ignore the tears that were streaming down her face.

“ _Whatever._ ” He shouted back. “Don’t you think you should be going now? You’ll probably have to get up early to sign autographs or something.” He looked suddenly over her shoulder at the door, his angry expression getting even worse somehow. Arya whipped round. Gendry Waters was standing in the doorway, looking as though this was the last place he wanted to be right now. She wondered how much of their shouting match he had heard.

“I heard voices…” He began lamely. Arya couldn’t take any more of this.

“Get _OUT_!” She screamed. All of the windows shattered, raining bits of broken glass all over the floor of the tower. “ _BOTH OF YOU_!” Neither of the boys needed telling twice. They both left hurriedly as she sunk to the floor, sobbing.


	8. Chapter 8

When Arya woke on Saturday morning, it took her a few moments to recall why she felt so on edge, but then everything came flooding back in vivid detail, and she sighed loudly. All of the other beds in the dormitory were empty already. Maybe even Daenerys and Meera had decided to abandon her too, she thought bitterly, pulling on her uniform with resignation. It seemed ridiculous to still have to think about schoolwork when she had the shadow of the tournament looming over her head now, too. She needed to speak to _someone_ ; anyone that would believe her that she hadn’t entered her own name into the goblet. But everyone seemed to have abandoned her. She tried not to think about Aegon; it was too painful still. In sheer desperation, she checked the seventh year dormitory for Sansa, only to find that she must have gone down to breakfast already. In any case, she wasn’t at all certain how Sansa would be of any help- or if she would even believe her. Maybe Arya could just skip her first lesson and loiter around Ravenclaw tower until Bran surfaced? He was young, but wise beyond his years, and less judgemental than Sansa would be, she reasoned.

She straightened her tie and glanced at herself in the mirror before descending the stairs; the usual lion’s mane of tangled waves was present as ever (possibly looking the wildest she’d ever seen it), along with the smattering of freckles and the scuffed black boots, but she just didn’t look _herself_ , somehow. Her eyes were puffy from crying so much, and dark purple half-moons bloomed underneath from her lack of rest; she hadn’t wanted to come back to the dormitory last night until she could be sure that everyone else was asleep. There was also something etched on her face akin to mild terror, something she supposed she had been feeling since her name was drawn- and wondered how long it would take for the expression to wear off. The moment she appeared at the bottom of the dormitory stairs, the students who were scattered round the common room started to applaud again, clearly not aware that the clapping was increasing Arya’s anxiety tenfold by doing so. She quickly crossed the room, thankful that the Marauders Map was stowed safely in the inside pocket of her robes; she would have to use it to avoid any other Gryffindors on the way through the castle. The prospect of more people treating her like a hero for something she didn’t do made her want to purposefully stand on the vanishing step of the grand staircase and disappear. Wrenching open the portrait, she came face to face with none other than Meera and Daenerys, who were holding stacks of toast and being followed by a floating teapot emitting a lazy spiral of steam from its spout.

“Hello,” Daenerys said, holding out a blueberry muffin towards Arya. “We bought some food from the hall…want to go for a walk?”

“Gods, yes.” She exhaled gratefully, taking the muffin; barely aware that she had been holding her breath. She didn’t say anything else; barely daring to hope that they would be on her side for this. They went downstairs and crossed the entrance hall quickly, by some miracle managing to avoid anyone else the entire way, before coming to a stop at an outside alcove overlooking the owlery. The teapot followed them in, upending itself into three mugs that Dany had conjured out of thin air. Meera and Daenerys munched on toast and sipped their Earl Grey in silence, listening intently to Arya’s recollection of everything that had happened after being summoned from Gryffindor table last night- thankfully seeming to accept her story without question.

“Well of course we knew you hadn’t entered yourself,” Daenerys said matter-of factly, prodding her wand at a floating ball of parchment so that it started to emit flickering blue flames, warming the tiny nook. “The look on your face when Mormont called out your name! You looked terrified!”

“Not to mention, Dondarrion’s right; no student could have possibly been able to fool Mormont’s age line _and_ the cup. Especially not you,” Meera winked, clearly trying to lighten the seriousness of the situation, for which Arya was partially grateful. It did however, further highlight the fact that she was completely and utterly unprepared and under qualified to enter a competition such as the Triwizard Tournament.

“I’m going to die.” She said dismally, putting her face in her hands. “Someone’s trying to kill me.” As soon as she made the latter statement it was like someone had lit a torch above her head. Everything suddenly made sense. She looked up again, rapidly looking from one girl to the other. “Someone _is_ trying to kill me. Why else would my name show up? And it’s a binding magical contract; I have no choice but to go through with it. Someone’s trying to finish me off! And it’s going to bloody work! I’m going to-to get mauled by a Hippogriff or… eaten by an Acromantula, or-”

“You’re not going to die, Arya-”

“-still can’t perform a decent disillusionment charm, I won’t even be able to hide from the bloody-”

“Arya-”

“-don’t know what the first task is, how am I meant to prepare for something that I don’t-”

“Arya!” Meera physically gripped her by the shoulders now, shaking slightly to stop her spiralling. It made her pause, at least.

“You’re _not_ going to die. You’re not alone. You don’t think we’d just stand by and not help you, do you?” Arya looked at the earnest expression on Meera’s face, then across to Daenerys, who was nodding silently behind her.

“Of _course_ we’re going to help you. We’ll find out what the task is. We can help you prepare, learn spells with you,” Daenerys now reached into her schoolbag and pulled out a crusty looking book that looked at least three hundred years old. “I went to the library this morning and pulled everything I could on the Triwizard Tournament and its tasks. We’re in this together, you idiot.” Arya felt a sudden rush of love towards her two friends, and couldn’t help but lose a few tears of happiness over their genuine desire to support her. Half an hour ago she had felt all alone, worried that no one would believe her. She tried to express this through words to her two saviours, but disappointingly all that happened was a fresh batch of tears.

“However,” Daenerys continued, as though she was weighing up her next words carefully. “I do think maybe you were right about…about the other thing…”

“About someone trying to fucking _murder_ me, you mean?”

“Well…yes. I don’t see why else your name would have been put in the goblet of fire. And I still don’t see how it would have been put there in the first place. Only an incredibly powerful witch or wizard could have done that, you know.”

“Well that rules Joffrey Baratheon out, then.”

“Arya, this is serious!” She looked increasingly anxious, now.

“Don’t you think I know that, Dany? It was just a joke! What else am I meant to do apart from-”

“Okay fine, yes. It’s a coping mechanism I suppose-but…you know what you need to do, as soon as possible?”

“Yeah…run away so I don’t have to willingly participate in my own horrific murder-”

“No. You have to write to Benjen, tell him everything that’s happened. He’s one of the most powerful aurors there is. Remember what Martell said in his speech all those weeks ago? About international magical co-operation, and forming alliances? I said back then that it sounded like something was happening, and now we _know_. Someone has entered your name into the Goblet of Fire-someone clearly wants you to get hurt, or worse…”

“But I don’t even know where Uncle Benjen is. He’s been away for months, tracking some lead-last I heard from Jon, he was north of the wall.” If Benjen was still working north of the wall then he’d be unreachable, even by owl. The northern territories were synonymous with ancient magic; only traversable by foot or thestral, and home to much darker creatures and spirits than they would ever learn about at Hogwarts.

“Well, write to Jon then? He might be some help? He told you to keep him updated on what’s going on at Hogwarts anyway-it’s almost like he expected something weird to happen, too? Here-I bought a quill and some ink out with me-”

“No way. I told you about his reply after the quidditch match! He basically threatened to hop on a dragon and come back to break Ramsey Bolton’s skull himself! If I tell him that someone’s now entered me into the Triwizard Tournament-”

“He’ll find out anyway, you know.” Meera reasoned, pouring herself another tea.

“How?”

“Arya, this isn’t going to be kept quiet,” Daenerys said earnestly, still looking slightly worried that she might start crying all over again. “This tournament is famous. Your _family_ is famous. I’d be surprised if there isn’t already something in the Daily Prophet about you competing; the circumstances aren’t exactly normal, are they? Jon would rather hear it from you before he gets told by someone else-I’m sure he would. Your mum and Robb would, too.” Arya considered for a second, twirling the quill around in her fingers before starting her letter to Jon. She would write to her mother when back in Gryffindor tower; she would have to think carefully about how to word the letter in such a way that Catelyn Stark didn’t immediately apparate to Hogwarts and remove her from the school. And Robb hadn’t actually replied to her last letter yet, sent weeks ago, so she had half a mind to let him find out from someone else anyway.

_Dear Jon,_

_I don’t know if you’ve even sent a reply to my last letter yet but, you told me to let you know if anything unusual was going on at Hogwarts and, well it definitely is. Last night I was picked as the fourth champion in the Triwizard Tournament. I didn’t put my name in (I’m not even old enough to enter), but someone else did. There was an age line around the cup created by Mormont, and the thing itself is enchanted, so I don’t know how they tricked it, but I swear I had nothing to do with it. The other champion is Asha Greyjoy, Theon’s sister. I think she hates me now, too._

_Hope you are okay,_

_Love, Arya._

She paused to re-read the letter, resisting the urge to say something about feeling completely on edge ever since her name came out of the goblet, her explosive outburst of uncontrollable magic last night, and about the massive weight of anxiety pressing down on her chest, but didn’t know how to properly put any of it into words, so settled instead for a minor postscript;

_PS- Tell Robb next time you speak, that I don’t care how much of a big shot he is at the ministry now, he isn’t too important to reply to his little sisters’ letters._

Happy with what she’d written, she walked up to the Owlery with Meera (Daenerys had dashed off to the castle, scandalised that she would be late to her first lesson; Meera had stayed, being just as blasé as Arya about her attendance) and attached her letter to Nymeria’s leg. She watched her owl fly off into the distance, wondering if the letter would do more harm than good.

*

Over the rest of the weekend, Arya tried to hide from anyone that wasn’t Dany or Meera as much as possible. She didn’t visit the Great Hall for meals, instead going straight to the kitchen to filch whatever she could get her hands on, or simply didn’t eat at all. She found the deepest, darkest corner of the library in which to do her schoolwork, and only returned to the dormitory late at night, when the other girls were asleep. Thankfully, she didn’t catch a glimpse of Aegon the entire weekend, and managed to avoid Gendry Waters too. She wasn’t entirely sure that either would be in a hurry to speak to her anytime soon, anyway. She kept the Marauders Map with her at all times; it became her constant companion and most valued possession.

Late Sunday night Arya had just tiptoed into the Gryffindor common room when she was ambushed. She reached for her wand too late, and was knocked backwards; overwhelmed by the force of a slender body that smelt like flowers, and then whipped in the face with a sheet of red hair. The attacker squeezed her so tightly that she thought her eyes might pop out, and then admonished her for hiding from her all weekend.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Sansa complained, pulling Arya in again for another tight hug. Stunned into silence from the very out-of-character display of affection, Arya could do nothing but stand limply and accept the embrace; she was still waiting for the inevitable question that seemed to be on everyone else’s lips: ‘How did you do it?’ It never came though, and Sansa pulled her over to the armchair by the fire instead, asking her to tell her everything that had happened after entering the trophy room on Halloween, which she did. She left out the argument with Aegon, and how she had lost control of her powers. It was something she had not admitted to anyone, and didn’t intend to. Random outbursts of magic weren’t something that happened often after the age of eleven, when witches and wizards were _meant_ to have learnt to regulate them. She hoped Gendry and Aegon wouldn’t tell anyone, either. After she was done, Sansa leant back in her chair, clearly deep in thought.

“Have you told mum all of this?”

“Yes. Haven’t got a reply back yet, though. I only sent the owl this morning.” She had spent the better part of Saturday evening writing and re-writing the letter to Catelyn Stark, trying to phrase it in such a way that she wouldn’t be _too_ worried. She knew it probably wouldn’t have worked though. Arya even remembering to write home was often cause enough for worry, her mother always liked to joke. The topic of owls reminded Arya of something else.

“Sans, have you heard from Robb recently?”

Her sister looked quizzically at her. “Not in a while, I suppose…why, have you?”

“No. I sent him a letter weeks ago though; probably the second week of term.”

“That _is_ strange…” Sansa was staring off into the middle distance again, clearly thinking. “I’m sure he’s fine though; he just got promoted-maybe he’s busy…”

“Yeah, maybe.” Arya wasn’t convinced though, and her gut told her that Robb’s recent lack of communication may well have something to do with her name being put into the Goblet of Fire. She didn’t mention this to Sansa however, as she didn’t want to worry her any further. Also she couldn’t yet think _how_ they could possibly be linked.

“Anyway,” Sansa sat up a little straighter, grim determination set upon her face. “Tell me again about this first task…”

Arya had told her everything she knew already, but recited it again nonetheless. She had been handed a letter by Professor Dondarrion in her Saturday morning study period, laying out the instructions for the first task again (they had been mentioned by Mr Varys the previous night, but she had been too shell-shocked to pay much attention then) and had now memorised the scrap of parchment by heart, she had read and re-read it so many times. The letter was still jammed into her Care of Magical Creatures textbook as a makeshift bookmarker, as if she was hoping it would develop some sort of secret clue if she kept looking at it every now and then.

“The first task; designed to test your daring. So you will not be given any clues as to what it is. This is to test your courage in the face of the unknown. It will take place on the second Saturday of November, in front of your fellow students and the panel of judges. As champions you are not allowed to ask for help from your professors, not accept any. You will face the first challenge armed only with your wand and your wits. You will receive information about the second task only when you have successfully completed the first. Good Luck.”

It did not help her any more now than it had the first time she had read it; the very nature of the first task meant that there was nothing she could do to prepare or plan for it. She would walk out there with nothing but a wand; and one less year of magical schooling than the other champions. She was, in simple terms, doomed.

“Ok, it’s a start…” Sansa said, nodding.

“Sans, did you listen to a word I just said?”

“Of course I did. And it _is_ a start. You’re a Gryffindor for one…”

“And exactly how is _that_ going to help me?”

“Oh honestly Arya, you’re so dense sometimes,” Sansa sighed, flicking her hair over her shoulder with practiced ease. “Remember the Sorting Hat? ‘You might belong in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart, their daring, nerve and chivalry set Gryffindors apart...” Arya blinked, feeling as though Sansa had skipped quite an important a step in her explanation somewhere along the way. Her older sister rolled her eyes, and then actually _laughed_ at Arya’s cluelessness. She felt that this was a little unfair. Arya was trying to focus on a way to not get killed in the first task, and here Sansa was, laughing at her and quoting the Sorting Hat!

“Arya, you’re probably the truest Gryffindor I know. This task was basically _made_ for you. The task is designed to test your _courage and daring_.”

“Sans, what have I ever done that’s courageous _or_ daring?”

“Well, you play quidditch like a maniac for a start. If it’s not daring to dive from hundreds of feet in the sky just to chase a tiny golden ball, then I don’t know what is. You’re daring because you’re not afraid to accept a challenge, or shy away from something that others would be too scared to attempt. Remember in your first year when they found that troll in the dungeons and you tried to fight it? That was-”

“That was _stupidity_ , Sans; not daring. It was pure _luck_ that I managed to hit the thing over its head with its own bloody club.”

“What about last year, when you and Daario had that competition to see who could get into the tunnel under the whomping willow? That showed daring, too.”

“That showed _recklessness_. I almost lost a bloody leg that day. Also I distinctly remember you visiting me in the hospital wing afterwards and calling me a complete moron, so-”

“Look, Arya,” She cut in, more seriously now. “What I’m trying to say is that this task seems like it’s going to test your ability to think quickly, to use daring to do something that others would be too scared to do. The task will probably be something that scares you, and that puts you under pressure to make a snap decision. You’ll need to be courageous, to face something head-on and not flinch. You can do _all_ of these things already. You just need to believe in yourself a bit, that’s all.” She sat back, done with her motivational speech. By the end, Arya was feeling a bit emotional. She didn’t think Sansa had ever said this many nice things about her all at once; the effect was quite overwhelming.

*

Arya’s next week at Hogwarts was the worst she had ever experienced at school. Even if the Gryffindors didn’t believe her when she said she didn’t put her name in the Goblet of Fire, they at least supported her wholeheartedly (in the traditional Gryffindor style of course; by being very abrasive and loud). The other Hogwarts houses were not so kind, however. Understandably, Slytherin was the worst; Asha was _their_ champion after all, and she had been slighted, by the simple fact that Arya had been allowed to compete as the second Hogwarts champion. Joffrey Baratheon had begun to heckle her loudly every time he saw her in the corridor, proclaiming his support for the ‘True Hogwarts Champion’, Asha. To Arya’s knowledge, Asha and Joffrey didn’t even _actually_ get on; last year she’d definitely seen Asha aim a bludger at Joffrey during a match because he’d made a snarky comment about her girlfriend at the time. But, she supposed, a Slytherin was always going to support one of their own. The lack of support from the other houses felt like a slight betrayal, though. In any other situation- like a quidditch game; everyone usually just supported whoever _wasn’t_ Slytherin. But the belief that Arya had underhandedly entered herself into the tournament seemed to have turned them against her. Her usually friendly and chatty Charms partner was now cold and distant towards her; Loras refused to crack a smile at any of her jokes, or engage in any conversation she tried to start with him about quidditch. The handsome Hufflepuff boy barely even looked at her for the entirety of their lesson, something that felt like a punch to the gut.

Meanwhile, Arya received a very short reply from her mother about her name being entered into the competition. It was also perplexing positive; she had barely done more than say she was very proud of her and that she was sure everything would work out fine. To add to the weirdness even more, she had added a postscript saying that she and Rickon were going to go and stay with Edmure for a while, as she missed him. Arya knew for a fact that her mother and uncle did not get on very well, and couldn’t think for the life of her why she would want to go and visit him now, when Arya was in literal mortal danger. If it hadn’t been written in Catelyn’s own elegant scrawl, she would have assumed someone had sent her a fake letter. She had showed Sansa, who had been equally bewildered, but then suggested that it may have been their mothers way of coping with stress, and not to worry. Arya wished everyone would stop telling her not to worry, and give her some helpful bloody advice instead. She went along with the poor explanation anyway for Sansa’s sake-though she knew deep down that her sister was beginning to realise something was wrong, too. She also caught herself checking in on Bran more often now, as though she was making sure that he, at least was okay- because every other Stark clearly wasn’t.

After Wednesday, everything started to somehow deteriorate even more. First period was Care of Magical Creatures, which usually Arya would have looked forward to, but Aegon was still not talking to her, and she wasn’t sure she could hack another confrontation with him at the moment. Over the weekend Arya had come clean to Daenerys about their argument (leaving out the Gendry part) and she had seemed characteristically cool and unfazed about the whole thing. “Oh Arya,” she sighed. “He’ll come round soon, I know my brother. He’s just jealous.” Arya had almost spat out her pumpkin juice at this, feeling even more confused than ever. “ _Jealou_ s? Jealous of what? Does he want to trade places, get maimed horrifically in front of the whole school instead of me?” Daenerys had ploughed on with her explanation anyway. “You’re so similar to him-to us both, really. We all have these famous relatives that have done amazing things and that’s all we’re really known for. Your dad and aunt…our dad…we’ll _never_ be able to live up to their legacy. He just wanted to be able to prove himself, to show he’s more than just Rhaegar Targaryens son. And then you became champion instead…”

“Well why doesn’t he just bloody tell me this himself?”

“Because he’s a boy, Arya.” She rolled her eyes.

“That’s no excuse for him to act like such a prat.”

“Aegon has always been a prat. You just never noticed before.” No, because I was too busy drooling over him, thought Arya bitterly.

“Are you sure this argument is just about the tournament?” Daenerys asked shrewdly, not looking Arya in the eye. What had he told her?

“Yes of course,” She quickly lied. “And tell Aegon from me that I’ll swap any time he wants, he can show _his_ bloody daring in the first task…”

“I’m not telling him anything,” She had shot back. “Tell him yourself, it’s the only way for you to sort this out.”

Arya spotted him as she reached the bottom of the castle steps, chatting to Sandor and peering into some barrels by his hut. As Arya drew close to them however, he took one look at her and walked off towards the other students with a frown.

“Fallen out with your boyfriend?” Sandor quipped underneath his breath. Arya wondered what would happen if she punched a teacher. She settled for a quick muttered “Fuck off” instead, looking into the barrels too. Inside each one was several swimming creatures; they almost looked like rats-if rats had bright blue tentacles growing out of their backs.

“Murtlap.” Sandor announced to the class, who had gathered round and were looking hesitantly into the barrels. “You’re going to be trimming the tentacles today. Madame Mordane uses it to make a salve; heals cuts and bruises.” He looked down quickly at Arya, something like concern etched on his features. “Pair up and use your textbooks; chapter five has a diagram of how to cut the tentacles correctly. Gloves, jars and clippers on the table…don’t get bitten.”

“What happens if we get bitten, sir?”

“Not much usually,” Sandor said, offhandedly. “It can cause flames out of the anus in a minority though, so best avoid it.” The class collectively looked horrified, rushing over to seize a good pair of gloves before they all went. “Targaryen-over here. Got one last barrel to come out.” Aegon grabbed gloves and walked over to Sandor, who was motioning for him to come over to his hut. Sandor was a hulking great giant of a man, and definitely did not need help lifting a barrel, she thought, frowning. Upon reaching the table and realising all the gloves had gone however, she realised why. The only other Gryffindors in the class were Tyene and Obara who always partnered together; and none of the other students were on speaking terms with Arya at present, so she couldn’t exactly partner up with them. Sandor had distracted Aegon so she’d have to end up with him. The bastard.

Fuming, she seized clippers and two jars and sulked over to Aegon and his barrel, where he had seemingly come to the same conclusion as her and was moping about it too. She dropped her bag and book at his feet before walking up to Sandor and demanding a pair of gloves. He found her some and then crouched down, pretending to tie his boot laces. “So,” he said gently, peering up at her through his curtain of hair. “Sounds like you might be needing some of that Murtlap salve soon…Triwizard champion.”

“Triwizard’s probably not a great name for it now, is it?” she muttered back, looking at her own boots awkwardly. Was he going to ask her if she did it, too?

“Any idea who might have put you in for it?”

“You believe me then-that I didn’t do it?” she said, barely concealing the rush of gratitude she felt at his words.

“’Course I do. Even you’re not stupid enough to do something like that.” He grunted.

“Er thanks, I guess…”

“Anytime, Miss Stark. You say it wasn’t you, and I believe you. Mormont believes you as well. And Dondarrion. Though he also believes in that cuckoo Lord of Light religion so-”

“You could have just stopped at ‘I believe you, Arya’, you know.”

She and Aegon worked in silence for the rest of the lesson, only speaking to say “Pass me the clippers, please”, or something equally as menial. It was absolutely exhausting being so close to him while he was acting like this. She thought back to what Daenerys had said; it had admittedly made a lot of sense. She definitely felt the pressure of being a legacy of her own famous surname, and supposed if the situation had been reversed and she had actually _wanted_ to enter, she might have been upset with him, too. She felt that she might even be able to forgive him for initially being such an annoying prat, if only he just _spoke_ to her about everything himself. But he hadn’t. And it didn’t look likely that he was going to any time soon, either. The bell for the end of the lesson hadn’t even stopped ringing before Arya had snatched up her book and began walking towards the castle for lunch, starving hungry and keen to get away from Aegon as quickly as possible.

The hall as usual at lunchtime was bustling with students, most of whom only jeered at Arya as she walked past them, just looking for someone to sit next to. Spotting Daario alone, she slid onto the bench next to him, snapping him out of his daydream.

“Afternoon, Lady Arya.”

“For the last time, can you _stop_ calling me that?”

“But a Triwizard Champion such as yourself needs a fancy-schmancy title.”

“Just…drop it, okay?” she implored, taking a chunk out of a sausage roll and glancing over to where Daario had been staring before. Trystane Martell was seated at the Ravenclaw table, surrounded by a small crowd of girls.

“Jealous?” Arya asked, through a mouthful of pastry.

“A little bit actually, yeah.” He replied, sounding like he was slightly in disbelief at his own honesty. Arya had to admit, the handsome Beauxbatons student did seem to be attracting more fans since his name had been drawn from the Goblet of Fire. He looked the part, too; tanned skin, dark eyes and athletic build, he was almost getting as much attention as Khal Drogo these days. The gruff, confident Asha even seemed to be more popular too. She was almost always seen tailed nowadays by a couple of male companions from Durmstrang, who carried her books or schoolbag and hung onto her every word. Whilst not pretty in the conventional sense, the girl exuded confidence and walked with an easy stride, as though she had won the competition already. She looked like a _true_ champion. Much more than Arya did, anyway.

Just as she was about to start on her second sausage roll, Meera appeared, muttering, “Watch out.” Val and Aegon were close behind her, and they were holding hands. When had _this_ development happened? She was half temped to launch a pot of mustard at Aegons head, imagining how he would look as the bright yellow condiment dripped down his hair. They had barely sat down on the other side of the table when someone tapped Arya on the shoulder. She looked up behind her, and then down again, as the tap had come from a tiny first-year student. They seemed to be twitching slightly, as though they were very excited for some reason.

“Hello Arya!” the girl squeaked. Arya wasn’t sure what was going on. The girl was a Ravenclaw; she wondered briefly if this were part of some kind of trick.

“Erm, hello…”

“I’ve been asked to come and get you. You have to go upstairs for the wand weighing.”

“For the _what_?”

“The wand weighing…all of the champions have got to go... Mr Baratheon sent me.” Arya glanced back at where Trystane Martell had been previously. Sure enough, he was now stood up, and following a first year that looked on the brink of a nervous collapse. Asha and Khal Drogo were in a similar situation over by the Slytherin table. Unfortunately, the Ravenclaw girl had taken Arya’s pause to mean she wanted more information, and began to speak again.

“I think someone from the Daily Prophet is there too…they want to take photographs.” Arya would have given all the money in the world for the girl _not_ to have said that. She stood up resignedly, half glancing at Aegon across the table. He was staring determinedly at his plate, but hadn’t eaten a thing. Face glowing from embarrassment, Arya strode away quickly, following the girl out of the hall.


	9. Chapter 9

The Ravenclaw girl deposited Arya outside a classroom on the fourth floor with a squeak and scuttled off to join her friend, who was still trembling slightly as she waved goodbye to Trystane. She was looking back at the boy with something close to awe expressed on her face, and had to be dragged away by her companion. Glancing at her with a confused smile, Trystane pushed open the door and held it open, letting Arya pass through first.

She found herself inside a fairly small classroom; most of the desks had been pushed back against the walls to leave a large space in the centre of the room. One end held several desks joined together like a head table however; they were covered in a gauzy black fabric and with five chairs positioned behind, one of which held the languidly reclining Renly Baratheon. He was talking to a pretty witch in bright white robes, who sat perched on the table before him clutching a cup of tea in her hands; hands that ended in talon-like long nails, painted gold. A notepad and quill hovered in mid-air next to her, scribbling away as she spoke. As she leant back and cackled uproariously at something Renly had just said, her long blonde hair was swept back and her mountains of jewellery tinkled and clinked like a wind chime. Renly’s face broke into a massive smile as he spotted Arya and Trystane by the door, and he jumped up quickly from the chair, looking relieved.

“Here they come! The champions at last! I was starting to think those girls had got lost…” He shook Trystane’s proffered hand and squeezed Arya’s shoulder in greeting. “The rest of the judges should be here soon…just the wand weighing, nothing to worry about. Ah! And here are Miss Greyjoy and Mr Drogo!” Asha and Drogo had just walked in, Drogo having to duck to fit underneath the door frame.

“Wand weighing?” Arya asked, surmising from the expressions of the other champions that they were as clueless as she.

“We have to check that your wands are fully functioning you see, as they’ll be your most important tools in the tasks ahead. The expert is on his way with Mr Varys; shouldn’t be long now. And then there’s going to be a little photo-shoot. This,” he gestured to the witch behind him, who was looking greedily at the champions. “Is Lynesse Hightower; she’s doing a small bit on the tournament for the Daily Prophet…”

“Maybe not _that_ small, Renly.” The witch smiled, only it looked to Arya as more of a grimace. She knew Lynesse Hightower only through reputation, but that was enough to know she didn’t want to be interviewed by her. The cold-hearted witch had famously broken the story of her own husband’s grizzly run-in with some muggles, earning her a promotion and him a cell in Azkaban. She was known for her salacious stories, always somehow the first to get hold of gossip; and was now looking at Arya as though she was the juicy piece of meat that she had chosen to eat first.

“I wonder if I could have a word with young Miss Stark while we wait for the other judges?” she said to Renly, not taking her eyes away from Arya. She felt the strong urge to run, and had subconsciously taken a step back, so that Trystane was slightly shielding her from the hungry-eyed journalist. “The youngest champion, you know…to add a bit of colour?” Arya did not want to be interviewed. She looked up at Renly with pleading eyes, and thought she had seen a flicker of apology there before he smiled warmly at Lynesse.

“Of course! That is if Arya doesn’t mind?”

“Well actually-” Arya began.

“Wonderful.” Lynesse replied, and within seconds was wheeling Arya back out of the classroom again, talons digging into her shoulder. It was like a nightmarish alternative to Renly’s brotherly shoulder squeezes. She opened a nearby door and pushed Arya in before stepping in herself and closing it. The room was pitch black. Suddenly candles appeared in mid-air and threw their surroundings into focus; they were standing in a large broom closet.

“This’ll be easier… now we’re away from all the noise in there. This is nice and cosy, isn’t it?” Arya just stared. The woman jangled around for a few seconds, arranging her pristine white robes before perching on an upturned bucket. She waved her wand and another bucket thwacked Arya in the back of her knees, knocking her down into a sitting position, too.

“Now, where shall we start?” The blonde smiled down at Arya, but the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her quill was scribbling away on a notepad behind her, unprompted.

“So Arya; tell me, _why_ did you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?” Oh, here we go again, she thought.

“I didn’t.” She said flatly.

“So it was a snap decision?” She peered down at her, chin resting on clasped palms as though she was trying to determine the lie. “But tricking the Goblet of Fire must have taken some planning, surely? How did you-”

“I _didn’t_.” She repeated, firmer this time. “I didn’t enter. I don’t know how my name got into the Goblet of Fire. I _certainly_ didn’t put it in there myself.” Lynesse raised one perfectly pencilled eyebrow.

“Oh come now, dear- there’s no need to be scared of getting into trouble any more. We all know that you’re too young to have entered. But don’t worry about that…our readers do love a rebel.”

“I didn’t enter. I don’t _know_ who entered me.” She glared sharply at Lynesse, who just shot back a sickly sweet smile.

“How do you feel about the tasks ahead?” She asked instead, changing tactics slightly. “Confident? Scared? Anxious?”

“Erm…nervous, I guess.” That was an understatement. Her insides squirmed just thinking about the first task. She certainly didn’t feel a lot of the courage Sansa claimed she had.

“Champions have died in the past though, haven’t they?”

“Well, it’s meant to be safer this year…”

“Of course, you are no stranger to death.” She stated, eyes narrowing slightly; she had finally got to what she wanted, Arya thought. “Do you think the death of your father is partially what motivated you to enter? Do you think this reckless behaviour is just-”

“I did _not_ enter.” She was starting to get irritated now. Lynesse was blocking her exit out of the cupboard though, and continued to talk over her.

“How do you think he would feel about you entering? Would he be disappointed? Worried? Angry?”

“How on earth would I know? He’s _dead_!” She snarled back, feeling her eyes begin to sting slightly. She prayed to all the gods that she would not start crying, giving Lynesse more ammunition. Her quill was zooming across the page behind her, now frantically scribbling after Arya’s last words. Before she could say another word however, the door to the cupboard was pulled open, flooding the cramped room with light, in front of which Jeor Mormont emerged.

“I am afraid that we shall require our fourth champion now, Lynesse. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start and it cannot do so without Miss Stark.” Very relieved to get away from her interrogator, Arya scrambled out as quickly as she could and walked back into the classroom, sinking into an open chair by the door next to the other champions. She inhaled a shaky breath and hastily wiped away a tear with her robes, annoyed at how easily Lynesse had managed to wind her up. Next to her, Trystane shot her a confused look, but said nothing, offering a sympathetic smile instead. Mormont re-entered the room and took his place at the black-clothed table along with the other judges; Lynesse was now sitting in one corner with her photographer, quill and notepad poised ready. Another guest that Arya didn’t recognise had joined them in the room too, and was patiently standing to one side.

“May I introduce Tobho Mott?” Mormont said, gesturing to the man. “He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament.” Arya felt her stomach wobble slightly at the introduction of the Diagon Alley wand maker; something that had nothing to do with her lack of lunch. She now wished even more that there wasn’t a reporter in the room. Lynesse Hightower was going to have a field day when it got to Arya’s wand.

The wand weighing went in the order that their names had been drawn from the cup; first Drogo (Blackthorne, twelve and a quarter inches), then Martell (Cypress wood, ten inches, with dragon heartstring core), with Mott making several brief comments about the types of spells they were suited to, as well as explaining the characteristics of wand wood and cores to the judges. He spoke about the wands almost as if they were people, Arya thought. Asha went next, whose wand Mott was clearly more familiar with.

“Ah, one of my own, this one!” he said with much enthusiasm, as she handed it over. “I remember it well…Ebony…containing a single Merling hair… excellent for use in combat magic, this wand. An unusual core; not one I use often, but…” he looked up at Asha with a smile. “Very fitting for a girl of Iron, like yourself.” Asha proudly beamed at this; the first time Arya thought she had ever seen her genuinely smile. Asha was from the Iron Islands like Theon, and fiercely defensive of her independent island home. Tobho Mott inspected the wand for a couple more minutes, before deeming it in perfect condition, shooting a shower of red sparks from the end and handing it back to Asha. Next it was Arya’s turn, and reluctantly she stood up and ambled over to the wand maker. “Ah yes,” He said. “And finally, Miss Stark.”

“Another one of your fine wands I presume, Mr Mott?” Renly Baratheon asked as Mott took the proffered wand, rolling it over in his fingers and looking up and down its length. Arya thought his eyes were glinting.

“A fine wand, yes. But not one of my own creations I am afraid. This wand is much older than I.” The man murmured, now running a finger deftly along the wand, then holding it up to the light. Arya doubted this; thinking that the wand maker looked positively ancient, but said nothing. She didn’t want to provide Lynesse with any more ammunition than she had to. He was taking much longer on his initial inspection than he had done with the other wands. The reporter sat up a little straighter in the chair now, her quill trembling in anticipation. The room fell into an uneasy silence as her wand was lengthily scrutinised, and still Mr Mott said nothing. He held the wand up to the light again, waved it through the air quickly as if testing balance, and looked closer at the markings on its handle through an eyepiece. Her wand was classically plain in design upon first glance, split into two halves of dark wood and a black bone handle; but much closer inspection showed the hilt to be carved with hundreds of miniscule symbols and runes. A small crimson ruby was imbedded into the base, the size of Arya’s smallest fingernail. The handle itself was actually dragonbone; her father had told her when she’d first been presented it. And embarrassingly, quite dirty at that current moment in time.

“Eleven inches; Weirwood. Dragonbone hilt. And…another unusual core…of Direwolf heartstring this time.” He murmured, still inspecting the wand.

“But isn’t Weirwood usually…white?” Lynesse queried, leaning forwards in her chair.

“Yes, it is.” The wand maker replied, simply. “At first, anyway. But once separated from the living tree it gradually darkens over time…as I said; this wand was not made by me. Unless I am very much mistaken, this wand was created a long, long time ago.” Lynesse looked puzzled. The judges had all sat up a little straighter in their chairs, confusion etched upon their faces. Again, Arya resisted the urge to correct the wand maker. He was wrong. The wand wasn’t _that_ old. It couldn’t possibly be. But he had been right about everything else… Arya glanced backwards at Mormont. Did he recognise it? Surely he must- he had fought with her after all… but his face gave away nothing.

“But… how is that so…?” Lynesse probed again

“This is an heirloom wand, am I right in saying?” Mott asked, looking up to Arya now, fascination etched upon his elderly features. She just nodded. “Passed down through generations…most likely mother to daughter, if we are to judge by the slightly smaller length…” Arya faltered, then nodded slowly again, holding her breath for the inevitable reveal that she felt was soon to come.

“Passed to the youngest daughter.” She supplied reluctantly. Mott nodded.

“Weirwood is rarely used for wand wood; personally I find it the trickiest to work with. The material will not usually yield to anyone but its true owner. I was not able to produce a spell with this wand just now, for instance. Reputed to be deeply unlucky for some…but can contain powerful magic for those that master it.” Arya recalled Mott waving her wand through the air moments ago; she had thought he was merely testing its balance. “ _Very_ unusual to be paired with Direwolf heartstring, though.” Mott seemed as though he was muttering all this mainly for himself, still turning the wand this way and that to see it from all angles. Suddenly, he turned his searching gaze upon her. “Do you feel you have? Mastered it, I mean.”

“Erm, I guess so?” It definitely worked for her, she knew that much. And Arya did _not_ know much about wands. She’d never had another, how would she know if she had mastered this one if she had nothing to compare it to? Mott pressed her again.

“Has it ever failed to perform for you? Disobeyed a command?” 

“Well…no.”

“And do you feel you have accomplished things with this wand? Perhaps magic you were not sure you had the power to perform?” Arya considered for a moment. She couldn’t really think of anything. Except maybe weeks ago, when she had performed the nonverbal summoning charm. Come to think of it, almost all of her spells worked better when she performed them non-verbally. Did that actually have something to do with her connection to her wand, though? Mott had been scrutinising her as she thought though, and seemed to have decided that her answer was yes. “Excellent!” He exclaimed. “ _Most_ extraordinary. Wandlore is very complicated, Miss Stark. Even I do not fully understand the laws of inheritance as well as I would like. The wand chooses the wizard, after all…or witch, of course.” The rest of the room was still silent, except for the scratch of the magical quill. “And who did you inherit this wand from, my dear?” Asked Mott. Arya sighed, thinking that surely the wand maker had guessed by now.

“My aunt…Lyanna Stark.” Lynesse audibly let out a little gasp, the scratching quill became more frantic. Arya wanted to kick herself. She had never told anyone about her wand before. No one except her immediate family knew that she had inherited the wand that had defeated the Night King. Unlike her other siblings, Arya had not been allowed to shop for a wand before starting Hogwarts. She had been called into her father’s office and presented with the wand of her dead aunt, instead. She didn’t _want_ someone else’s wand, she had wanted her own. She wanted to be _chosen_ by her magic tool, not just handed one. It was bad enough that she was always compared to the famous witch as a child, but now she would have to actually be the owner of her wand, too? All because of some bloody family tradition that her great grandmother had started, when she had passed the wand to her own daughter. She’d kept it a secret because she didn’t want people to know, and now the comparisons to her aunt would start afresh. Brilliant.

Tobho Mott had a smile upon his face like he had figured out some great mystery. The rest of the occupants of the room all bore varying expressions of awe, confusion or surprise. All except Mormont, who just looked slightly resigned. He _did_ know after all, Arya thought. What Arya did next, in hindsight, was decidedly stupid. She wanted to let the wand maker know that he hadn’t got everything right; that the wand was only one hundred years old, if that. Not ancient, like he was making out.

“Oh no, my dear,” he had said in reply, frowning; still holding her wand. “There is no doubting the age of this wand. These runes, the carvings… I would go so far as to estimate that this wand was created around the Age of Heroes.” Arya blinked. That couldn’t be right. It couldn’t possibly be. That would make her wand thousands of years old. Her father would have told her. It couldn’t be. It was only her great grandmothers.

“It is hard to believe, I know,” Mott said, finally handing her wand back. "It is in remarkably perfect condition, still. But the magic this wand holds, it is truly ancient. This is perhaps the oldest wand I have ever seen.” Arya gripped the hilt, thinking hard. The wand seemed to weigh more now somehow. If all this were true and she possessed a wand that was thousands of years old…why had her father not told her? Did he even know? If she had known she held such an artefact in her possession then she would have taken much better care of it. She was always leaving her wand lying around. Merlin’s beard! Imagine if she’d lost it…

It seemed as though the Weighing of the Wands was over now however, and Arya finally returned to her seat, avoiding eye contact with everyone else. She was thinking hard about the various revelations about her wand. And whether she should write to her mother and demand to know why she was never told that she carried a thousand year old artefact around with her daily. She thought about it being unyielding to anyone but its true master, also. To her knowledge, no one else had ever tried to use the wand while it was in her possession, so she didn’t have anyone other than Mott to compare that to, unfortunately. But what he had said about accomplishing extraordinary magic…she didn’t consider non-verbal spells to be _extraordinary_ , per se; though she’d never been in a situation where the performance of extraordinary magic was really needed either. Maybe she would find out in the next few months, as the tournament began.

Eventually, Mormont stood up from the table, and announced that all of the champions could return to their afternoon lessons now, but was cut off by Lynesse.

“Photos, Professor! We can’t forget the photographs!”

“Ah yes, of course I had almost forgotten…” The champion’s photographs took a long time, as Khal Drogo seemed to block out the light from every angle he stood. Asha kept being told to smile more; and Arya noticed halfway through that her robes had sausage roll crumbs all over them. The only champion that seemed completely comfortable in the spotlight was Trystane, who smiled and put his arm jauntily round Arya’s shoulders for the pictures. She smiled up at him, thankful that finally it seemed as though she had an ally among the other Triwizard hopefuls. The camera man seemed to love this and jumped forward, snapping a couple of close-ups of the two of them before Arya had the sense of mind to scowl at him to ruin the picture and make him go away.

Eventually they were allowed to leave and Arya gratefully half-sprinted out of the door, trying to put as much space in-between her and Lynesse as possible. She had almost reached the end of the corridor when she heard footfall behind her and turned around. Trystane Martell was calling her name, jogging to catch up. How did he even look good running? She waited, wondering what on earth he could want. She didn’t think she could stand many more questions about how she entered, or about her wand.

“Hi, Arya.”

“Er, hello... is everything okay?”

“Yeah, you just forgot your bag!” He swung her rucksack off his shoulder and handed it to her. She’d run out in such a hurry that she hadn’t even realised it was missing.

“Oh, Thank you!”

“No problem,” he turned to walk away, and then seemed to reconsider. “Oh and don’t pay any mind to Lynesse. Or the story she’s going to concoct about your wand, or aunt, or whatever. She’s just a heartless bitch trying to sell gossip as true journalism.” Arya blinked, taken aback by his brutal honesty.

“Thanks, Trystane. I’ll erm-I’ll try not to.” She was going to have to try _really_ hard though, she thought; because Lynesse had more than enough ammunition now to make Arya out to be some lying, fame-hungry legacy child with the wand of her hero aunt. Trystane waved goodbye and went back to the classroom again as Arya slung her back over her shoulder and walked away, wondering what Lynesse Hightower had ever done to Trystane Martell to make him hate her so much. She supposed, with the article soon going to be written about the Tournament, she would find out.


	10. Chapter 10

Arya’s already bad week took a sharp downwards spiral on Thursday morning with the arrival of the post. She was reaching over to pour herself some more tea just as Meera’s owl deposited a letter along with her newspaper; something that Arya was happily oblivious to until her friend let out a small gasp. Looking up, she was horrified to see a large picture of her own face smiling back at her from the front page of the Daily Prophet. To make matters worse, it was one of the close-ups that the photographer had taken of her and Trystane, with his arm around her shoulder. Out of context on the front page, it looked rather like a candid picture of a couple. They were both smiling politely at each other in the moving image, but Arya would occasionally turn to face the camera and scowl, as she remembered she had done when she’d realised she was being photographed.

Tentatively, she scooted nearer to Meera to get a closer look, sense of impending doom increasing as she read the first few sentences. It looked as though it was more of a greatly embellished Arya Stark biography, rather than a story about the Triwizard Champions as a whole. Arya had already confessed everything Tobho Mott had said about her wand to Daenerys and Meera as soon as she saw them after the weighing, as well as about her forced interview and the photographs, trying to mitigate any potential fallout that would come of Lynesse’s article. She didn’t want another Aegon situation on her hands. The girls had been fascinated by the revelation of her wand more than anything else, and as per Arya’s request, both attempted to cast a spell with it. Neither had succeeded. Daenerys (who Arya had never ever seen unable to perform a spell in her life) was most intrigued and annoyed by this, and had even dashed off to the library afterwards, muttering something about a book she’d seen on wandlore.

The article reported Arya saying a lot of things she did not remember discussing with Lynesse; things she didn’t remember ever having said to anyone at all, actually. The more she read on, the more her stomach turned.

_‘I suppose I get my strength from my parents. My mother is very proud of me for entering, although she is worried, obviously. I think my father would be very proud of me too, if he were still around. I just want to show that I can be as brave as he was when he fought in the war, and as brave as my aunt was, too. I know they are both watching over me somewhere.’ At this Arya’s eyes begin to glisten with tears as she remembers the family she lost in the wizarding war. At only sixteen, she is the youngest in the competition, and yet already the spitting image of her aunt Lyanna Stark; the fierce warrior beauty who died fighting the Night King himself. Arya is now even the owner of the wand that dealt the famous killing blow, and declares proudly that; ‘This was passed down to me upon my aunt’s death, and I intend to do great things with it as she did’._

The article went on to lie even further, spinning tales of her supposed relationship with Trystane, which had been supposedly confirmed by someone close to Arya.

_A source close to the gorgeous brunette says Arya has often been seen recently in the company of fellow champion Trystane Martell (the happy couple is seen picture together, above), the bright boy from Beauxbatons, who coincidentally happens to be the son of Beauxbatons headteacher and Triwizard Tournament judge, Doran Martell. Favouritism or fate? Are these two champions destined to be together? Another source however cites Gryffindor quidditch team captain Gendry Waters as the one to look out for where Arya’s heart is concerned. The handsome young man can often be seen with Miss Stark as they take a stroll around the grounds together, even recently coming to her rescue when she sustained a quidditch injury (the multitalented young lady plays in the position of seeker for Gryffindor) and had to be carried up to the hospital wing. Sounds like the young lady is wildly popular with the boys, but is she wildly popular with the teachers? Read on to hear about some of Arya’s past rule-breaking and wild exploits in her time at Hogwarts. (More on pages six, seven and eight.)_

Arya groaned and leant forward, face first against the table, wishing more than anything that her name had never been pulled out of the Goblet of Fire. Meera and Daenerys half-heartedly tried to console her, but to little avail. Whatever support and friendship she had managed to maintain since the champions were drawn would be gone now, she was sure of it. She had skimmed the rest of the article; there was barely any more mention of Trystane or Khal Drogo, and ‘Osha’ Greyjoy was only mentioned in a sentence right at the end, as the other Hogwarts champion. Lynesse had done her homework on Arya, though; she somehow had the inside scoop on every time she had ever got into trouble at Hogwarts, and had woven it into the article in such a way that it made her out to be a hero. Her lucky escape from a mountain troll in her first year? A startling show of bravery and innate talent for such a young witch. The numerous times she had been caught duelling other students? Clearly she had an aptitude for combat magic like Lyanna. The time in third year when she and another student had accidentally turned part of the third floor corridor into a swamp? Impressive and complicated magic. Thankfully Lynesse hadn’t got hold of the fact that the student often accompanying her in these situations had been Aegon; she thought the reporter might have a field day if she found out she was friends with the son of Lyanna’s lover. _Had_ been friends, anyway. More than ever now she wished that she and Aegon were on speaking terms; he would have known exactly how to cheer her up after this. Sadly, the article had probably only served to diminish their friendship even more; she was now romantically linked to Gendry _and_ Trystane. One of those romantic links of course was a complete lie, and so she assumed the “source close” to Arya was also completely made up. But that didn’t explain how she would have known about Gendry carrying her up to the hospital wing the other week, or their walk around the lake even before that. Because they _had_ only been on a walk around the grounds together once. That was before she was even champion. So how had the nosy witch known about that?

Arya stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder, telling Meera and Daenerys that she would meet them at Charms; she wanted some time alone. On the way out of the Great Hall, she had to pass by the Slytherin table, who unfortunately seemed to have read the article too.

“Want a tissue, Stark? Don’t want you crying all over my potions essay later” Sneered Ramsey Bolton. Myranda Snow cackled nastily next to him.

“Since when have _you_ been beautiful, Stark? Or is this in comparison to that troll you fought?” Joffrey Baratheon heckled, eyes glinting with malice. She gripped her wand through her robes, wanting nothing more than to hex them all, but quickened her pace instead, almost sprinting by the time she reached the door.

“Arya! Hey-Arya!”

“Yeah that’s right,” she shouted, whirling around at the top of first flight of marble stairs and drawing her wand. “I’ve just been crying my eyes out over my dead dad, and I’m now off to do a bit more…”

“No-it was just…you picked up my book yesterday by mistake…” It was Aegon. Arya felt the colour rising in her face and hastily put her wand away. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, holding out her copy of ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’.

“Oh, right…sorry,” she muttered, meeting him halfway on the staircase, digging around in her own bag for his copy of the textbook. They swapped books, brushing fingers slightly in the transaction. Arya’s breath hitched. He was on the step below her, so she didn’t have to look up as far as usual to make eye contact, which neither of them was breaking. The air around them seemed thick, like it was filled with things that needed to be said, but Arya knew they would remain unspoken; they were both too stubborn. In any case, Aegon needed to be the one to apologise, not her. It was his fault they had ended up like this. The moment stretched on, unbroken until someone screeched Aegons name from below and he flinched.

“Aegon! Babe we’re gonna be late!” _Babe?_ Arya glanced behind Aegon, to see Val waiting at the bottom of the stairs, tapping her foot and pouting. What the fuck? Without saying a word, he turned on his heel and descended the stairs again, joining Val at the bottom where they linked hands and turned the corner together. For what seemed like the hundredth time already that day, Arya had an overwhelming urge to punch something.

*

Double potions that afternoon came all too quickly, and Arya descended the stairs with Meera and Daenerys to the dungeons gloomily. Despite Professor Martell’s obvious dislike for Arya, she normally liked potions; it was one of her better subjects, and she found it oddly therapeutic to add ingredients to a cauldron and watch it bubble away for an hour or two. Today however, she didn’t feel relaxed at all. Because of the large amount of students who had taken potions at NEWT level, the cohort had been divided in two; and Gryffindor had ended up with the Slytherins. Being shut in a dungeon for two hours with Martell _and_ the Slytherins was about the worst thing she could imagine right now. Every step she took towards the classroom felt like she was willingly descending into a pit of snakes. A pit of snakes with more venom than usual.

When they arrived outside the classroom, the Slytherins were waiting outside already. Ramsey Bolton was nonchalantly leaning up against a stone gargoyle along with Myranda, and to Arya’s immense displeasure, he was waving a copy of the Daily Prophet around in his hand again.

“Oh look everyone,” he sneered. “The _champion_ is here. Should we bow? Or would you prefer us to courtesy?” Arya ignored him, stopping a good distance away and turning her back to him; she didn’t completely trust herself not to punch him if she stood any closer.

“No response? No witty comeback from the _multitalented_ Miss Stark?” Ramsey heckled again. Arya breathed in deeply, trying to drown him out by focusing instead on the group of Gryffindors that had just turned the corner to the classroom. Aegon was up front, holding hands with Val again. The sight didn’t help much with controlling her anger. Ramsey was continuing to quote embarrassing lines from Hightower’s’ article at her, while the Slytherins snickered. Aegon wasn’t laughing; but he wasn’t sticking up for Arya either. Meera and Daenerys seemed to be attempting to mitigate her anger, using soothing tones to tell her just to ignore Bolton, not to listen to him. He seemed to realise Arya was trying to drown him out however, so shouted his next words of abuse.

“Hey Stark, I wouldn’t worry about the first challenge… you’ll probably die quickly anyway-”

“Piss _off,_ Bolton.”

“-and you’ll finally be able to join daddy dearest.”

Some of the anger and anxiety Arya had been feeling for the last few days seemed to explode in her chest at his last dig. She had reached for her wand before she knew what she was doing. All around her, students scrambled out of the way, retreating to the end of the corridor again.

“Arya-” Daenerys said warningly. Ramsey had also reached for his wand, and his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper as he pointed it straight at her.

“Careful now, Stark. Your wand might be special, but you’re not. You haven’t got the guts to try it.” She definitely did have the guts. And she had never got him back for cracking her skull open with a bludger, either. Now was her chance. For a split second, they looked into eachothers eyes, slate grey into watery blue, and then both acted at the same time. Jets of light shot from both wands, hit each other in mid-air, and deflected. Arya’s curse hit a wall and bounced off harmlessly. Whatever curse Ramsey had shot at her however, had scorched a cigarette-like burn into the stone next to her head. She snarled, stepping forward and letting loose another spell. Where Arya had precise aim and good footwork, Ramsey launched spells erratically; lashing his wand through the air like a butcher would bring down a knife. The air was filled with shouting from Gryffindors and Slytherins alike; and smoke filled the air from the many deflected spells. She was casting more shield charms than any offensive move, and the ground at her feet was becoming blackened and cracked; whatever curses he was hurling at her, they were intended to hurt.

“What is the meaning of this?” shouted a heavily accented voice from down the corridor. Arya stopped firing hexes immediately, but Ramsey took her sudden ceasefire as an opportunity to shoot one more. Not having time to cast another shield charm, Arya launched herself sideways into the wall instead, sliding down to the floor as the wind was knocked out of her lungs and she was pelted with shards of stone. When she looked up, she was horrified to see crumbling rocks in the place where her head had just been. Whatever curse Ramsey had sent towards her just now had ripped apart stone; the dungeon wall looked as though a small earthquake had hit it. A shiver subconsciously ripped its way through her spine. If it could do that to granite, what could it have done to her? And what kind of sixth year old knows a spell that could do that to a person?

The Slytherins were all clamouring to give their explanations to Professor Martell about what had just happened. He glanced towards the crevice that had just been blasted in the wall, an odd expression flickering across his features before returning to neutral. Holding up a hand, he silenced the other students, before pointing to Ramsey and demanding;

“Bolton, explain.”

“Stark attacked me, sir-”

“We attacked each other at the _same_ time!” Arya shouted, still slumped on the floor. She felt as though she had cracked a rib. Martell looked from one to the other disdainfully, quickly glancing back at the fractured dungeon wall again. He looked as though he was calculating something in his head. Arya hoped that it was how quickly it would take Ramsey Bolton to collect his possessions once he got expelled. Surely he was about to get into serious trouble?

“Duelling in the corridors is strictly forbidden, as you both know. Even for… _champions_.” He added with a sneer. If Arya had been standing up she was sure she would have lunged for her potions professor then and there. “Fifty points each from Slytherin and Gryffindor. And Miss Stark; detention with me every evening until Sunday.” Arya couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. The injustice of it! Ramsey could have _killed_ her, judging by the missed curse. And he was getting off basically without punishment! She opened her mouth to argue, but only ended up wincing from such a sharp intake of breath. She _definitely_ had a cracked rib. Ramsey sneered at her from behind Martell’s back.

“Now get inside, all of you. And Targaryen, take Miss Stark to the hospital wing, she’s bleeding all over my corridor.” And with that, he turned on his heel and swept into the classroom, rust coloured robes swishing around him. Arya was fuming. She wiped the bleeding side of her face with her robes, the shards of stone having peppered her skin like tiny knives. Everyone bustled past Arya silently, eager not to incur Martell’s wrath. She looked up, expecting to see Daenerys coming to her aid, surprised instead to see that Aegon was in fact the closest Targaryen to her; the closest _anyone_ to her in fact. And he had his wand out, as if he was about to cast a spell and had been caught in the act. Dany and Meera exchanged sympathetic glances with her before following the other Gryffindors reluctantly. The dull thud of the classroom door closing behind them echoed around the corridor, now empty except for her and Aegon, who had hastily put away his wand.

“What have I always told you about making sure you have a second?” he half smirked, crouching down towards Arya to help her up. She scowled. Gingerly, she let him pull her up to standing height though, and didn’t argue when he slung her bag over his shoulder as well as his own. They started off towards the hospital wing in silence, Arya wouldn’t know what to say even if she could speak without experiencing a shooting pain in her side, and she was still disturbed by the small explosion that had torn the dungeon wall apart; she couldn’t help but imagine what _she_ would look like if she’d been hit by the same curse.

Walking up the stairs was a challenge. Though she didn’t admit it, she was in a great deal of pain now, and it was only increasing with each breath. Somehow sensing this, Aegon gently and silently put an arm around her to support her; by the time they reached the second floor of the hospital tower however she had to stop, feeling faint. Mental images of her own splintered head kept pushing unbidden into the front of her mind, along with the leering face of Ramsey Bolton. Why was _everyone_ trying to kill her? And why was no one on her side? Martell had seen the destroyed wall himself; surely he knew what catastrophic effects a curse like that could have had on a person? And if she couldn’t escape a duel with Ramsey Bloody Bolton without injury, how on earth was she meant to cope in the Triwizard Tournament? She didn’t even know what she was facing yet, and it was just over a week away.

She was taking short, shallow breaths to minimise the pain shooting through her left side (and to mitigate the effects of what she was sure was an oncoming anxiety attack), but it didn’t seem to be helping much; in fact it was now causing Aegon to become blurred. He seemed to be saying her name, but from a long way away. Was she underwater?

*

Arya woke up in the hospital wing. Someone was lowering her onto one of the beds, and someone else bustled around on her other side. A sharp crack and shooting pain in her ribs brought her quickly out of her haze, and she looked up to see Madame Mordane pointing her wand at Arya’s side.

“Two more to go, I’m afraid.” she muttered as there was another sharp crack and shooting pain. “I don’t know what on _earth_ you children get up to…” Her sentence was cut off by a third crack. As soon as the final rib was healed, Arya breathed a deep sigh of relief. “I’ll be back soon with some dittany…” The matron bustled off, leaving Arya alone with Aegon. She was surprised to see she was gripping tightly onto his hand, and when she loosened her hold, he didn’t let go.

“You kinda just…stacked it, back there.” He said, before she could ask. “I had to carry you. And to be honest, you were a _lot_ heavier than I was expecting.” He grinned then. Ah, she’d missed that grin. She wanted to smile back, but at the same time remembered that he still hadn’t apologised for being a complete arse about the tournament. His grin faltered, upon seeing her remain stony-faced. His expression then abruptly altered into one of repentance. Amethyst eyes earnestly met hers and he leant slightly closer across the bed.

“Arya, look… I think I-”

“Mr Targaryen, do you not think you ought to be getting back to class?” Aegon flinched as Mordane cut him off, marching back along the hospital wing. “The hospital wing is for those that are sick or injured; _not_ those who wish to skip their lessons.” With a sigh he stood up, finally tearing his eyes away from Arya and dropping her hand. It felt cold without his familiar burning heat. Had he just been about to apologise?

Arya only had to endure Madam Mordane’s complaining about the dangers of duelling for an hour or so before she was released, with three newly fixed ribs and no trace of any facial wounds. Magic truly was a wonderful thing. She had been forced to take an invigoration drought, to stave off any potential ill-effects from her fainting episode, and as a result was feeling the best she’d felt all week.

The feeling lasted about ten minutes. Upon entering the common room she was horrified to see Aegon and Val curled up in a single armchair by the fireplace, oblivious to anyone or anything around them. She averted her eyes quickly, not wanting to witness the sickening display. Aegon had clearly forgotten about apologising to her pretty quickly. Feeling increasingly nauseous, she stormed through the common room and up to her dormitory, where Meera and Daenerys apologetically informed her that her detention would be at eight that night, in the dungeons. Finally, after what seemed like days of being on edge because of pent up anger, fear and anxiety, she cried.


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

At a quarter to eight, Arya miserably began her descent towards the dungeons, with puffy eyes and in a foul mood. In the past few weeks at school she’d managed to lose Aegon, almost get killed (twice), be docked fifty house points, earn four nights’ worth of detention, get entered into a deathly tournament, _and_ she was now being ostracised by most of the Hogwarts population. That was in addition to whatever was going on with her family back home. She still had not heard back from Robb or Jon, and even though Sansa had said not to worry about her mother and Rickon, she couldn’t help but feel anxious over the completely out of character letter she had received from Catelyn. The cherry on top of the ever-growing cake of disasters in her life had been the Daily Prophet article by Lynesse. Times hadn’t even been this bad when her father had died. Back then, she’d had the support of her friends and family, and even lots of other students and teachers that had known her father, too. Now, she was almost alone. And had no idea why or how she had ended up in this situation in the first place.

Steeling herself for an inevitably unpleasant evening with Professor Martell, she took a deep steadying breath and knocked on the door to his office three times, before being beckoned in. As usual the dungeon room was cold, dimly lit with candles, and smelt faintly of burnt metal. She was glad she had worn her thickest jumper and socks. Martell was at his desk, hunched over a roll of parchment with a garish scarlet and black quill.

“Come, sit.” Without looking up, Martell indicated to the chair opposite him at the desk. “I will be with you in a moment, Miss Stark.” Tentatively, she walked over and slumped into the armchair opposite him, wondering what work he would set her to do. She peered through the door that led from his office into the potions classroom. Nothing was set up; no cauldrons to scrub out, no ingredients to weigh, no lines to write. She looked around the office next; the assortment of jars and bottles that lined the walls all looked neat and tidy as usual, and the containers of pickled objects glimmered in the firelight, sending long shadows up the wall behind them. Finally Martell finished writing his letter with a flamboyant swish, and turned to face her. His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight, and he as he scrutinised her Arya had the fleeting impression that she was the prey, and he the predator.

“Now…what are we going to do with you, Miss Stark?” She didn’t answer, not sure if it had been a trick question; it _felt_ much as though it had been a trick question. Still Martell’s eyes glittered dangerously across the table from her. Suddenly she felt as though she would have liked to be sat much further away. He leant forwards slightly, probing her again.

“Do you know why you are here, tonight?” Arya couldn’t help but narrow her eyes at the potions professor. Now that was _definitely_ a trick question. Still, she took the bait.

“Because I am being punished for being a Gryffindor.” She said boldly (and probably stupidly), not taking her eyes off him.

“You are _not_ being punished for being a Gryffindor. You are being punished for duelling in the corridor outside my classroom.”

“Bolton didn’t get detention! And he’s a Slytherin!”

“Mr Bolton had house points taken from him.”

“So did I! _And_ I’ve got detention!” Arya realised she was now most inadvisably arguing with her professor but couldn’t seem to stop the jumble of heated words that came out of her mouth, indignant at her situation. “He almost bloody killed me…did you not see the-”

“I _did_ see, Miss Stark” he leant back in his chair now, as if carefully considering his next words. “I most definitely did. And so I will ask you again, why do you think you are here tonight?” She didn’t say anything, afraid that she might face more detentions if she shouted at a teacher.

“You don’t know?” She still didn’t answer. “Then I will have to tell you. You are here tonight because I believed if left to your own devices, you would have gone to seek Mr Bolton yourself, and pay him back in kind for his curses earlier.” Arya didn’t react, not wanting to show in her facial expression that he had in fact very accurately guessed her intentions.

“So… you gave me detention so I couldn’t go and pick a fight with one of your students again?”

“Not _exactly_... I gave you detention so you could not go and _lose_ a fight with one of my students again.” He corrected, holding a hand up immediately to stop her half-formed retort. “Miss Stark you know as well as I that Mr Bolton was not firing harmless jinxes at you earlier. You were lucky to escape with minor injuries.”

“Cracked ribs are not _minor_ -”

“Cracked ribs are not _life-threatening_. If that curse had hit you, believe me; your life _would_ have been threatened.” He spoke sharply, and then adopted a softer voice, almost as if he were trying to break bad news. He looked at Arya with something almost resembling concern. “I will admit… at first I did not find it believable that someone else would or _could_ have entered you into this tournament. But since you have been announced as second champion, you have also spent several days in the hospital wing with serious injuries and been openly cursed in a school corridor.” Arya stared at her professor, somehow confused and beginning to understand at the same time. Was he saying what she thought he was saying?

“Miss Stark, it is clear to me now that someone is very much trying to cause you harm.” Arya gulped. Hearing it from a teacher made it seem somehow more plausible than when Daenerys or Meera had discussed it with her. Arya suddenly remembered the look that had briefly crossed Martell’s face earlier when first seeing the cracked and blackened wall. At the time she hadn’t been able to read his expression but now she realised; he had been shocked, and had seemed to be calculating what to do. Had he been thinking of a way to get her away from Ramsey without any further problems? And about Ramsey…why did _she_ have to be hidden away in detention just to steer clear of _him_? If Martell suspected Bolton was putting her life in danger, why didn’t he just tell Mormont? Why didn’t they kick the bastard out? She must have been thinking out loud because Martell then proceeded to reply to several of her questions.

“We cannot expel a student without sufficient basis for doing so.”

“You saw the wall! You saw what it did to _stone_ , professor. Weren’t you an Auror? Don’t you see that’s Dark Magic?”

“Firstly Miss Stark; I was never actually an Auror, per se. And secondly; for reasons I cannot go into with a student, it is not as simple as just expelling him.” He frowned at her across the desk. “And thirdly…I do not believe Ramsey Bolton could have put your name in the Goblet of Fire. As much as I am supportive of the students within my house, I have to admit…I do not believe Mr Bolton capable of magic advanced enough to do so. I do not believe _any_ student could have yet learnt such advanced magic...” He faltered slightly, realising he had maybe said too much. Arya got the implication though. And it made her feel queasy. The only other people with access to the Goblet of Fire besides the students were the teachers. _Her_ teachers.

“Nevertheless, I do believe that it is best you stay away from Mr Bolton as much as possible for the time being; to avoid confrontation. And do not travel alone in the school, either. You must have someone with you at all times. I have arranged for someone to take you back to Gryffindor tower later this evening, but you will have to do so yourself in future.” Arya just stared. She couldn’t quite believe that she was being told by a teacher to avoid another student; because they suspected he was trying to _kill_ her. In a _school_. And that Martell was being so matter-of-fact about it. Did they think this was _normal_? Hogwarts was meant to be one of the safest places in Westeros! Why was everyone slowly descending into madness around her?

“I would also ask that we keep this conversation strictly between ourselves.” He regarded her shrewdly, as though he had predicted that the first thing she would do when she got back to Gryffindor would be to tell Dany and Meera. She still hadn’t ruled it out, even with the Red Viper staring into her soul like that. She might just burst, or cry herself to sleep for the next few weeks if she didn’t tell anyone else. “Professor Dondarrion believed you were not ready to be told all of this but…Professor Mormont believed you were strong enough; and is aware that we have had this conversation. And he is doing the best he can to ensure your safety, Arya. But this needs to stay quiet. We need time to work out how best to approach this, to keep you safe and ensure we catch the person responsible. Do you understand me?” He frowned at her. She nodded sullenly. So not only was Ramsey Bolton out for her blood this year, but someone else likely was too; and she couldn’t even tell her best friends about it. Not even Sansa. It’s not like they would have been able to help much anyway, she supposed; if great wizards like Mormont and Martell didn’t even know who was behind it, what hope was there for a couple of students to get together and put the pieces together? What hope was there for her to even _survive_ if Mormont and Martell didn’t know who was behind it all? She wished she could at least tell Meera about how oddly fatherly the Red Viper was being about all of this; for years the girl had been on about a conspiracy theory that Martell had fathered hundreds of kids all over the world. Maybe his concern for her now would have given some credence to her crackpot idea.

“Yes. I understand.”

“Good. Now…we still have a detention to be getting on with.” When Arya balked at this, Martell sighed and stood up, indicating that he should follow her into the Potions classroom. “As I said, Miss Stark; we have to keep you safe until we find out who is trying to cause you harm. Unfortunately for you that means you will be spending a good deal of time under my watchful eye, using your aptitude at potions to replenish my stores. There will be no more unnecessary wandering the corridors at night,” Arya briefly wondered if he knew just how frequently she had wandered around the castle at night. “I have not forgotten also that you started an illegal duel outside my classroom, whatever your other extenuating circumstances may be...”

Martell put Arya to work concocting a batch of sleeping draught in the potions classroom while he loosely supervised, coming to check on her every now and then whilst he marked essays in his office. Whilst he had resumed his normal professor-like attitude as soon as their initial conversation ended, Arya felt slightly safer knowing that a powerful wizard like Martell would be looking out for her now. And a tiny bit of pride at his words about himself and Mormont; that they both believed she was strong enough to be told about their suspicions of Ramsey. For perhaps the first time in her life she felt like she was being treated like an adult by the actual adults around her. She wished it hadn’t been in the present circumstances, but at least it had happened. If only Martell was allowed to give her a clue about the first task. But, she supposed, he wasn’t actually allowed to help her at all; and even if he _was_ going to help any student with the first task, it would surely be his own nephew Trystane. Or even Asha. She wondered vaguely if Martell had read the article that Lynesse wrote; did he think that she was dating his nephew now? Maybe he felt some sort of obligation to make sure she didn’t die because of that. It would partially explain why he was being properly nice to her for the first time in six years.

Arya had just added the final ingredient to her sleeping draught when someone knocked on the door to the potions classroom. Martell called at them from the office to come in, and the heavy door swung open to reveal none other than Gendry Baratheon in a thick jumper and muggle style parka jacket. Suitably confused to see Arya brewing a potion on her own in the dungeons so late at night, he faltered, before spotting Martell who had walked through from his office. Arya reddened; she hadn’t actually come face to face with Gendry since accidentally shattering several windows in front of him the other day, having tactfully used the Marauders Map and her extensive knowledge of the secret passageways to steer clear of her quidditch captain. She was allowed back to training again this weekend though, so she knew she would have had to face him sometime soon. She would have preferred it not to be late at night when her hair was frizzed up from cauldron steam, however. They had never actually spoken about their tapestry kiss either, she remembered with a jolt. Hopefully he’d have gone to bed by the time someone arrived to bring her back to Gryffindor later, so they wouldn’t have to have an awkward conversation about it. Oh gods, was _Gendry_ her escort back to Gryffindor tower?

It turned out that he probably was. Whilst Arya pretended to focus on her final minute of clockwise stirring, she peered through to Martell’s office where he and Gendry had just disappeared. He had handed Martell a rolled up scroll and a bottle of what looked like wine from his bag, which Martell took with a rare smile, clapping the boy on the back affectionately. Arya had never seen the Red Viper treat a Hogwarts student with such familiarity, even a Slytherin, and wondered what on earth Gendry Waters had done to earn such favour with the potions master. Her draught was now finished though, and she had to tear her eyes away from the strange duo as she magically decanted the deep purple liquid into several vials that Martell had provided her with; he had stopped watching over her a while ago but she knew the potion was perfect anyway. It had actually been quite soothing for her nerves to do nothing but cut and stir and measure ingredients for the past couple of hours, and wondered if perhaps that was why Martell had made her do it, rather than write lines or tidy shelves.

By the time she popped in the last cork, Gendry and the professor were walking back through to the classroom, and when the Gryffindor captain swung his bag back over his shoulder it clinked, like he had just stashed several bottles inside. Curious.

“All done?” Martell inquired, reaching for a vial and holding it up to the candlelight. Seemingly satisfied, he nodded and scooped up the containers, handing one to her. “I daresay it may help to have one of these handy, Miss Stark.” She pocketed the vial, silently agreeing. She wanted nothing more than to take it all at once and sleep until the whole Triwizard Tournament was over, but would make do with a few good night’s sleep, instead.

“Just one drop should do it. You have brewed a very potent batch, here. You’ve clearly been taught well.” She prevented herself from rolling her eyes at this. Another thing she wouldn’t be able to tell Meera; he’d even made a dad joke.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. You may go now, Miss Stark. Same time tomorrow. I daresay Mr Baratheon will not mind escorting you on your return to Gryffindor tower?” Arya didn’t think Gendry could really deny the polite request from a teacher to escort another student safely back to house, but said nothing. She wasn’t too thrilled about the prospect of a night-time stroll together though. It was either going to be a long silent walk or an equally long awkward conversation. She’d had a tough day, and had a lot to think about. Something as trivial as a one-off kiss didn’t seem like a high priority problem to her right now, anyway.

Arya and Gendry reached the top of the dungeon stairs before either spoke. She’d always thought the expression about cutting the tension in the air with a knife was incredibly dramatic, but after that long ascent she thought that maybe she finally understood. She wasn’t sure what emotion had been radiating off Gendry as they had walked together, but could practically _hear_ it, he seemed to be thinking so loud. When he finally spoke however, his question stupefied her so much that she came to a complete standstill, and he walked right into the back of her.

“So…how long have you and Trystane Martell been a thing?”

“How long have we _what_?”

“You and…and Martell. I thought…since the article said…” He tailed off, as Arya stared disbelievingly at him. He couldn’t be serious?

“Are you _thick_?” She asked incredulously. “Do you really believe a word that stupid woman wrote about me? Gods, you’re just like the rest of them!” Her forceful response seemed to have thrown him off slightly. Gendry was now staring down at her, slightly open mouthed. She shoved past him and stormed off, irritated; she should have expected it really, now he was just another person to add to the list of people who believed all the lies about her. She didn’t know why it upset her so much to think that he believed it too, though. Heavy footfall behind her told her that Gendry was jogging to catch up.

“Stark, I’m sorry. I just-I thought that’s why you’d been avoiding me….”

“I’ve been avoiding _everyone_.”

“Not _everyone_ …”

“Most people, then. In case you hadn’t noticed, most of them seem to hate me now anyway! And that was even _before_ that bloody article…”

“ _I_ don’t hate you.”

“Well, you probably should.” She whirled round to face him halfway up a flight of stairs, and he had to stop again suddenly on the step below to not topple over. “I exploded a window in your face, or don’t you remember? And you were dragged into that ridiculous article, too.” Gendry wasn’t looking at her anymore; he was suddenly very interested in observing his hand that was clutching the bannister, thrown out to stop him falling seconds previously.

“I don’t hate you for accidentally exploding some windows, Arya. You were upset. I’d be upset if someone put me into that situation, too…”

“You mean… do you…?”

“I believe you, yeah.” He finally looked up at her, blue eyes wide and earnest. “I don’t think you’d have put yourself in danger like that. You looked like you were about to faint when Mormont read your name out. And I mean…you’re a terrible liar so I know you wouldn’t have been able to fake that.” He smiled faintly at his last comment, and Arya returned it hopefully. That was two more people now that believed her. Still probably less than ten people overall, but it was something. He now looked sheepishly back down at his hand again. “And I don’t care about being named in the article. Sorry for believing the thing about you and Martell, though. You’re definitely not…?”

“We’ve literally spoken about _twice_!” She half laughed. “We are _definitely_ not together! It was just one picture!”

“Good.” He replied, and then quickly backtracked. “I mean, not _good_. It’s just erm, I obviously didn’t want him to think that we were…I didn’t want to get in-between anything if you were…It was a good picture though. I mean-you looked good. Not that you don’t now, it’s just erm… You always look good.” He stopped waffling mid-sentence, swore loudly and then quickly proceeded to rush past Arya up the stairs, leaving her speechless. What on _earth_ had got the usually stoic Gendry so flustered? And had he just told her that she always looked good? The admission caused a little involuntary shiver to run up her spine. She had honestly thought their one-off kiss was just that; a one off. But did Gendry actually properly _like_ her? Before she had time to process his incoherent episode and her own reaction to it however, his footsteps had returned and he was inches away on the step below her again, looking as if he’d been hit with a confundus charm. He opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off, the words spilling from her mouth before she was able to stop them.

“You look good, too.” A second passed before his lips were on hers, and she wasn’t sure who had moved first. She didn’t know how badly she had wanted to kiss Gendry again until it happened, and it was like all her senses had gone into overdrive at his touch. She wanted the hand around her waist to grip her tighter, the one in her hair to weave in deeper. Even though he was a step below her, Arya still had to tiptoe to kiss him, and craved closer contact like the night weeks ago when they had returned from the library together. Unfortunately they were currently standing in the middle of a staircase on the fifth floor, in full view of anyone who chose to travel via the main staircase. Gendry seemed to be thinking along the same lines, and mumbled a suggestion to find a classroom in-between hasty kisses. Arya agreed, and reluctantly tore herself away from him, tugging his hand along behind her as she raced up to the seventh floor. She only let go when they reached the tapestry of the dancing trolls, closing her eyes and ignoring Gendry’s bemused questions as she walked past the blank space of wall three times, thinking hard about what she wanted. When she opened them again the door had appeared already, looking aged and ancient, as though it had been there all along.

She grabbed Gendry by the hand again and pulled him inside, remembering what Jon had taught her; that the enchantment would only work for others if they were brought in by the finder. The room they entered into was much bigger than it had any business being; cavernous and high-ceilinged like a cathedral, the gargantuan space was filled with rows upon rows of shelves like a library, except they held far more than books. Random statues, rusted cauldrons, broken wands, old bottles and dusty cloaks were stacked haphazardly on every available surface, left by generations of students and teachers. Giving Gendry’s hand a tug and ignoring his sounds of astonishment, Arya headed off to the left, weaving in-between shelves as she tried to remember where she’d seen it. Finally she saw the broken sneakoscope that perched on top of a blistered old cabinet and took a sharp left, emerging into the small antechamber. The much smaller room was more like a very large cupboard really; the walls were similarly lined with even more crowded bookshelves, but in the corner next to a lazily crackling fire there was a large mustard coloured armchair, perfect for curling up for an undisturbed nap, or to sit and read in for hours undisturbed. It was towards this that Arya shoved Gendry.

“How did you find this place?” He asked her in awe, slowly taking off his bag, and shedding off the parka.

“One day I needed a place to hide and this door just appeared as I was legging it down the corridor… I only found out what it really was later on…” She explained, moving closer to him. She was hot now, a combination of the running they’d just done, the heat of the fire, and of impatience. Gendry was removing his jumper now too, slowly pulling it above his head, revealing a sliver of stomach that made Arya shamelessly bite her lip. She remembered the day down at the quidditch pitch when they’d been knocked to the ground and she had felt the muscles through his jersey. She took another step forward and was met halfway, their lips crashing together again finally. Arya enthusiastically grabbed at his shoulders, his arms, to feel the muscles bulging underneath. She remembered with a jolt when he impatiently reached for her that she hadn’t bothered putting a bra on earlier that day, something that he soon found out too as his large hand snaked across her skin underneath the thin t-shirt, and she swore that his palm could cover half of her torso. He moaned into her lips at the revelation, drawing her roughly closer and kissing deeper than before, pulling her tightly towards him as she shoved again, and he collapsed onto the armchair. The fire steadily crackled away behind them.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, i'd love to hear what you all think of the story so far! Any theories or thoughts on the characters? And also tell me more about you! I'd love to know where my readers are from! Thankyou so much for reading my work, it means so so much to me that people are actually enjoying something that i'm writing (also keeping up with posting regularly is keeping me occupied in lockdown!)

* * *

Arya continued to brew sleeping potions for detention every evening until the end of the week in Martell’s classroom; but her professor didn’t offer any more paternal advice or help, instead mainly keeping to himself while she chopped, measured and stirred. She didn’t dare ask the intimidating professor why he needed so much sleeping draught. She kept her word to him though, and didn’t mention the suspicions to anyone that he and Mormont had about Arya being entered into the tournament. She felt guilty about lying to Daenerys and Meera, but decided that she would rather stay in the Red Viper’s good books at the moment; after all he was somewhat trying to protect her. Also true to her word, she made sure she had an escort at all times. When leaving her detentions this meant enlisting the services of Gendry Waters, who was always more than willing to accompany her, even if he didn’t know part of the reason why she asked him to be there. The other part of her wanting him to be there; well, she was _sure_ he knew. And the late night walks with Gendry were also something she could tell Dany and Meera about, to lessen her guilt slightly. They had noticed immediately anyway, being present in the common room with Daario on Thursday evening when her and Gendry had stumbled in at almost midnight together slightly dishevelled; Arya had been wearing his parka jacket because she was cold after leaving the room of requirement. By the time they had left, the fire had all but gone out, reduced to a few glowing ashes in the metal grate of the hearth. Her friends had watched her awkwardly shrug off his jacket and say goodbye, and waited until he was barely out of earshot before attacking her with questions. Remarkably, Daario had been worst of them all, and had continued to pepper her with knowing glances during their usual weekend quidditch practices. The questioning continued sporadically all the way through to the next week, which both irritated Arya and made her slightly thankful; the whole situation was enough to take her mind off the impending first task, anyway.

It was a strange thing, that when you are dreading something and wish to slow down time, it only seems to have a disobliging habit of speeding up. The days until the first task slipped by as though someone had fixed the clocks to work at double speed; and before Arya knew it, it was Tuesday, and the task was only four days away. Arya’s barely controlled panic and anxiety at (presumably) her impending death was only exacerbated by the snide comments from the Slytherins about the Daily Prophet article, and the chilling silence from her family outside Hogwarts. She had not received a reply from either her mother, Robb, or Jon for well over a week now, and despite Sansa’s constant soothing that she was sure everything was okay, she was on edge at all times. To make matters even worse, Aegon hadn’t tried to approach her to talk since the duel the other day either, something she was sure was because of the constant comments that Meera and Daenerys were making about her and Gendry. Instead, he was always glued to Val Rayder, something that still felt like a dull blow to the gut every time she was forced to witness it. Trying to block everything out of her mind, she turned to the only things she knew that distracted her for a couple of hours; quidditch, and kissing with Gendry.

Which was why on Tuesday evening, after a couple of hours of flying with the captain until it got too dark to play, she found herself engaged in an altogether different type of one-on-one practice with him in the changing rooms. They never said much when they were alone together, they didn’t really need to; years of playing in the same team had meant they could communicate without words, both on the pitch and off. He seemed to understand that she needed this as a release of stress and anxiety, just the same as she could understand now what his dumbfounded look meant whenever he saw her. It wasn’t a cold and unfriendly understanding; she felt like if either wanted to talk or open up to the other, they could; they just weren’t ready yet. Even if Arya _had_ been ready, she wouldn’t have been able to tell Gendry everything going on in her life anyway; and she was sure that he wouldn’t either. She hadn’t forgotten his oddly chummy interaction with Martell the other day, nor the clink of bottles she had heard in his bag either. She was sure brewing potions for students wasn’t allowed, and even though she had taken a small vial of sleeping draught herself, she supposed technically she was the one that had brewed it, so it was okay. Gendry had stashed what had sounded like a small apothecary away in his bag.

Slightly muddy, sweaty, and still a bit breathless, Arya and Gendry were almost at Gryffindor tower when Sansa swooped around the end of the corridor in front of them, red hair fanning out behind her like a banshee. Arya flinched automatically and jumped away from Gendry, prepared to apologise for being in the corridors after-hours when she realised it must only be ten o’clock, if that.

“Arya! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” She admonished, looking from one to the other, noting their dishevelled appearance. Arya could have sworn that her sister was trying to supress a grin. She was too smart to think that they had only ended up that way through quidditch practice.

“Been busy.” She countered, and then suddenly panicked. “Is everything okay? Have you heard…?!

“No. I just…need to talk to you, that’s all.” Taking the hint, Gendry said his goodbyes and left, Arya and Sansa observing him silently until he turned the corner at the end of the corridor.

“I have to admit, he is _very_ good looking, Arya.”

“ _Sans_!”

“Well, it’s the truth!” She countered, still watching the end of the corridor, as if thinking. Arya frowned. She did _not_ want Sansa to start paying attention to Gendry. She was far better looking, and would be sure to draw his gaze if she just tried. Sansa looked down at her, almost laughing when she took in Arya’s facial expression. “Oh relax, green monster! I’m not taking away your gorgeous boyfriend.”

“He is _not_ my boyf-”

“Look, Arya, to be honest we haven’t got time for this right now. I was trying to find you to deliver a message. Sandor needs to speak to you.” Sansa suddenly snapped, her expression changing from mildly amused to stern and anxious in a second. She reached into her robes and pulled out a bundle of silvery material that could not possibly have squeezed into her pocket without the aid of an undetectable extension charm. She glanced down at Arya’s muddy, sweaty quidditch robes and wrinkled her nose slightly. “You won’t have time to go back and change or anything. Put this on. Quickly,” she threw the heavy cloth at her, before turning around. “I can walk you as far as the Great Hall but then I’ve got prefect duty.” Fumbling with the bundle of silvery cloth whilst almost running after Sansa, who was pacing down the corridor; she realised that the cloth was in fact a cloak. Arya was about to ask her sister what on earth was going on when she stopped dead in her tracks, for the first time noticing her own appearance. Instead of seeing muddy trainers and quidditch robes when she looked down, she saw nothing. Her body simply wasn’t there anymore. Giving the cloak an experimental twitch upwards, she could just make out the toes of her converse; before the silvery material fell down to cover them again.

“Sansa, where on _earth_ did you get an invisibility cloak from?”

“Explain later, we’ve got to hurry! You’re already late because I couldn’t bloody find you! Cover yourself up, follow me, and don’t say a word to anyone once you get out of the castle! Understand me?” Arya nodded, then realising Sansa couldn’t see this, stuck her hand out of the folds of the cloak and gave her a thumbs up quickly instead. She did what she was told though, bemused as to why her Head Girl sister was not only allowing her out of the castle late at night, but giving her the means to do so without getting caught. It was like something out of an absurd dream.

Sansa deposited Arya at the entrance of the hall, before rushing off to do her duties, muttering inconspicuously under her breath that she’d try and find her later. Arya continued down towards Sandor’s hut, wondering what on earth he could want to speak to her about so urgently at ten o’clock on a Tuesday evening. And why she had to be invisible for it. She’d snuck out plenty of times before then, he knew that more than anything! When finally at the door to his hut she paused, hearing voices within. Should she knock? Surely that would defeat the whole point of her being invisible if she were to make herself known to whomever else was inside? She had just about made up her mind to move off the doorstep and try to peer in a window when the door was flung open in front of her, and she had to dive to the side to prevent being bowled over by Renly Baratheon. He was followed by Mr Varys, and then Sandor himself, who was furtively looking round his garden as though looking for something. Struck by an idea, Arya made sure the other two were not looking in her direction, before sticking out her hand and quickly waving, drawing her hand in the cloak immediately afterwards. This seemed enough, as he nodded ever so slightly, before asking the Triwizard judges to follow him, heading in the direction of the forbidden forest.

“Sorry ‘bout the wait, gentlemen. Jus’ wanted to make sure there weren’t any students loitering around that could see you. The little buggers are nosy.” Sandor grunted, leading the way through the trees with a long stride, while Renly bounded after him, looking every bit as enthusiastic as he always did. Mr Varys seemed to glide along the ground behind them, oddly graceful for a man of his size.

“No worries, Sandor. We’ve been waiting months for this; a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. I must say, I am _terribly_ excited. Never seen one in the flesh before, you see.” Arya frowned underneath the cloak. Never seen what before? Was she really just accompanying Sandor as he showed people his Murtlap colonies or something? And why was Renly Baratheon so excited about it? Staying a good distance back so as not to be heard crunching over the fallen autumn branches and leaves, she missed the rest of their conversation, starting to realise that she’d never been through this area of the forbidden forest before, in their lessons or otherwise. The ground was growing rockier and more mountainous the further they walked from the castle, and she was struggling to cross the uneven floor whilst holding the cloak around her at the same time. On and on they walked for well over half an hour, and Arya was starting to get tired. She’d already done her exercise for the evening, both on the pitch and off, and she was starting to feel drowsy as suddenly a large screech echoed through the trees in front of them. Panicking, she sped up towards Sandor and the other men, thinking it would be just her luck now to be mauled by some creature after only just managing to escape Ramsey Bolton’s curses.

“That’ll be them, almost there now….” What on _earth_ was Sandor keeping in the forest? Another ear-splitting screech came from up ahead, along what sounded like men shouting. The smell of burning filled the air, and as she followed Sandor and the judges up a steep incline, she saw flames shoot upwards into the sky. Standing on the crest of the rocks, Arya saw what at first she thought were several bonfires, with men shouting and running round them, and then her mouth dropped open. _Dragons_.

Four gigantic, vicious-looking, angry dragons were rearing onto their hind legs and flapping their wings from inside an enormous enclosure cut deep into the mountainside, just like a muggle football stadium. No wonder you couldn’t see anything from further away, she thought, shakily descending down the mountainside after Sandor. The beasts were roaring, screeching, and shooting flames up tens of feet into the air from their cavernous arena, thrashing around violently as teams of wizards attended each one, shooting spells and dodging the frequent jets of flame shot at them.

There was a silvery-blue one, with long pointed horns along its spine, a smaller green-scaled one, writhing and stamping on the ground, a red one with a fringe of gold spikes around its face that resembled a lions mane, and closest to them, a gigantic black one. The black one seemed the most vicious of them all; more lizard like than the others somehow, gnashing and snapping at the men that circled it, with teeth the length of one of Arya’s arms. The wizards seemed to be trying to control the dragons, pulling on chains and thick leather straps around their necks and legs. Arya was frozen halfway down the side of the drop, keeping her distance both from the enclosure and the men she had followed to it, as pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place; the judges, the dragons, the reason she had to stay hidden…surely it couldn’t be what she thought it was?

She watched as the black dragon made a howling screech, seemingly just noticing the three men descending down the side of the enclosure towards it.

“Stay back there, Sandor!” yelled a wizard near the fence, straining against the chain he was holding. “This one’s been shooting fire at a range of fourty feet!” Arya sharply turned, instantly recognising the voice of the dragon-tamer. Spurred into motion once more, and forgetting all thoughts of the first challenge, she quickly and quietly slid down the remainder of the rocks, getting as close to the enclosure as she dared. There, twenty feet below, clad in black leathers and with his hair scraped back into its usual scruffy bun, was her brother. Jon was now ordering the men around him forwards into some sort of manoeuvre, and within seconds multiple jets of red light shot towards the dragon from all sides. The beast slumped, jaws stretched wide into a silent howl as it fell with a stupefied thud that made the trees shake, with its nostrils still smoking. The tamers of the other three dragons followed suit, and within minutes the arena was quiet. The men hurried round, tightening chains and fastening ropes to the ground with huge metal spikes that were then forced deep into the ground by magic. Arya watched half fascinated and half fearful, as her brother walked up to the black dragon and administered a large vial of dark purple potion into its jaws, as nonchalantly as if he were feeding leaves to a Flobberworm.

“Want a closer look?” Sandor said, so close to Arya that it made her jump. He had almost walked into her without realising where she was stood. She followed the men into the arena; Renly Baratheon was wearing an expression of awe and excitement, whereas Mr Varys simply looked horrified.

“All right Sandor?” Jon asked, coming to greet them, giving his old colleague a slap on the arm in greeting. Both seemed completely unfazed by the incredible scene Arya had just witnessed in a near-horrified state. She felt a rush of pride for her dragon-tamer brother. “They should be okay now.” He spoke to the men in front of him, of course, but Arya had the funniest feeling that Jon knew she was there. The mystery of the invisibility cloak was starting to make more sense, now. “We gave them a sleeping draught on the way here, thought it might be better for them to wake in the dark and the quiet, you see. But they weren’t happy, not happy at all… the second draught should knock them out for a few more hours but they’ll probably be just as angry when they wake again.”

“What breeds you got here, Jon?” Renly asked, still gazing in awe at the largest black dragon. It seemed to be snoring, spraying dust up every time it breathed out. Sandor answered before Jon had a chance.

“This big black bitch is a Hungarian Horntail. Nasty bugger. The little one is a Common Welsh Green. The blue-grey one is a Swedish Short-Snout, and the red one-that’s a Chinese Fireball. All female, I’d wager.” He looked at Jon, who nodded. “You can always tell. The females are more vicious.” Sandor now led the two judges away, under the guise of inspecting the Swedish Short-Snout at a closer range. Jon studied them as if to make sure they were out of hearing range, and then moved towards where Arya was stood, still hiding under the invisibility cloak.

“Alright there, Underfoot?” he mumbled with a grin, trying not to appear as if he was talking.

“So you _did_ know I was here!”

“Of course I did! Who do you think passed the cloak to Sansa? Anyways, I’ve disappeared under that thing enough times to recognise the signs.”

“So it _is_ yours?”

“Well, it’s Robb’s really.” Jon shifted uncomfortably. “But I’m… borrowing it for a bit. I’ll explain another time.” He paused again, watching the other wizards still busying themselves around the dragons. “Follow me. Quickly.” They ducked through a hidden exit of the arena, turned the corner and were suddenly alone. With unerring precision, Jon reached forward and grabbed hold of the cloak first time, pulling it off and tugging Arya towards him for a tight hug, which she readily reciprocated.

“I’ve got to face one of _those_?” She asked weakly, gesturing to the wall of the arena beyond which the four dragons slept.

“Nevermind them, we’ll deal with the dragons in a second. How are _you_?” He asked, holding her shoulders and inspecting her face closely with dark eyes, seeming to understand as she just shrugged, and kicked at the ground whilst trying to blink away tears. There wasn’t really a way to quickly verbalise just how awful the past couple of weeks at Hogwarts had been. Jon nodded sympathetically, squeezing her shoulders. “I got your letter. We were travelling so I couldn’t respond at the time, I’m sorry. I thought it would be best to speak in person, anyway. Now….who do you think put your name in that goblet?” Somehow Arya knew that one person who would unquestioningly accept that she hadn’t entered herself would be Jon. She quickly ran through her suspicions about Ramsey Bolton and the corridor duel, and what Martell had said too. Jon considered for a second, eyes full of concern.

“I think…Martell is probably right about one thing. Ramsey Bolton isn’t smart enough to have entered you himself. And no other student could have done it. As for the duel and the quidditch incident…well just be very careful around him for the time being, okay?”

“What do you _think_ I’ve been doing, you idiot?”

“Just don’t go _looking_ for trouble, is all I’m saying Arya….”

“I never go looking for trouble…it just always seems to find me!”

“Well we both know that’s a bit of a stretch-” seeing Arya’s face contort into anger, he continued hastily. “We haven’t got time for this right now. Look, I’ll speak to you after the task, you need to focus on that more at the moment. I’ll get a message to you again somehow…but for the time being I need you to know something else…about Bharbo.” Arya blinked, confused.

“The Durmstrang Headteacher?”

“Exactly. Bharbo… he used to be a Death Eater. Was locked up in Azkaban for it, too.”

“He used to be… wait what? How on earth do they let him run a school when he used to-”

“Bribed his way out, probably. Gave them information about other death eaters, or straight up gave them money, I don’t know. Either way, it doesn’t matter right now. What matters is…the person who put him in Azkaban in the first place was _dad_ ; back when he was an Auror.” Arya’s brain was struggling to keep up with the amount of shocking information she’d been given in the past hour. First the dragons, now this?

“So you think…Bharbo put my name in the Goblet of Fire?”

“It’s the only person I can think of with motivation to do so.”

“He looked really mad about my name being pulled out of the Goblet though...he even accused Mormont of having a faulty age line…”

“Well it could have been an act…we know he’s a good liar, he’s already managed to fool the ministry into releasing him from Azkaban…” Jon tailed off, clearly deep in thought. “Just-stay away from him, that’s all. And make sure you’re never alone around the castle.”

“Already done.” She sighed, now adding yet another person to the list of those potentially trying to kill her. “Now, about these dragons...what exactly will I have to do? Fight one?” As a child, Arya had grown up on fairy tales of great wizards and witches from the Age of Heroes, both dragon-riders and dragon-slayers; she’d always fantasized about being one or the other herself. Never had she actually thought that she’d get to live out her fantasy for real later on in life (although under the current circumstances, it seemed more like a nightmare than a dream come true).

“Well…I don’t know exactly-”

“You don’t _know_?”

“Look, Arya, it’s not like they tell us everything you know. I could get sacked just for bringing you here! I _think_ you’ve just got to get past one. They wanted nesting mothers…I don’t know why. We’ll be on the side-lines if things get nasty.”

“ _If_?”

“You’ll be fine, Arya Underfoot.” He looked into her eyes earnestly; slate grey meeting almost-black. “You’ll figure out a way. You always do. Tell Sansa everything too, she can help. Just remember… go for the eyes if you try a spell-the scales are too thick for anything to penetrate. And be quiet about it, whatever you do; they have excellent hearing... we’d best be getting back in there, though. Sandor’ll be wondering where I am. Oh, and you can keep the cloak until I see you again. But don’t get too attached, this doesn’t mean it’s yours, you know…”

Safely under the cloak once more, Arya followed Jon back into the arena and towards Sandor, who was now at the black dragon again.

“I’ll tell you this,” Jon said loudly as they drew close. “I don’t envy the champion that gets the Horntail. Vicious beast, this one. Its back end is almost as dangerous as its front, look.” Arya followed his pointing finger, and saw long, crimson-coloured spikes protruding every few inches along the tail of the dragon, like long knives. She gulped.

“Your little sister of course will be one of the champions facing the beasts, will she not?” Mr Varys asked silkily.

“Aye, she will.” Jon nodded innocently. “She always did want to be a dragon-rider though; when she was younger she used to fly around on dad’s old Nimbus and pretend she was Aegon the Conqueror.” Arya flushed underneath the invisibility cloak as Renly Baratheon laughed heartily. It was just like Jon to embarrass her when he knew she wouldn’t be able to defend herself. He redeemed himself slightly however, as he began to walk towards the other dragon-tamers. “But I have every faith in her abilities now, Mr Varys. She was chosen to be champion, after all.”

Jon’s supposed confidence in her abilities sadly did not do much to prevent Arya from working herself up into an increasing state of panic as she followed the men back through the woods. By the time she had almost reached Gryffindor tower, she thought she was close to having a panic attack. She wasn’t sure if she was more or less worried after this evening; now that she knew what she’d be facing in the first task, she had a slight advantage, she guessed. But the knowledge that it would be a dragon that she’d be facing…well it hadn’t done much to lessen her anxiety. Not to mention the fact that there was a Death Eater running around Hogwarts that probably had it in for her as well.

Stepping through the portrait hole, she spotted Sansa in the otherwise empty-looking common room. Her sister looked confused, and only as she drew closer did Arya realise that she was still wearing the invisibility cloak, which she pulled off with a dramatic swish.

“Arya...”

“Dragons.” She said bitterly. “It’s fucking _dragons_ , Sans. How the fuck am I meant to get past a bloody-”

“Arya-”

“Full grown, too. You should have seen the _size_ of them, Sans! They’re all mothers too, so they’re even _more_ vicious, and-”

“ _Arya_.”

Sansa interrupted her pointedly again, eyes widening as she nodded to the far corner of the room, which Arya had completely ignored upon her entrance. Turning round, she saw Aegon Targaryen slumped in an armchair in the corner, mouth slightly open, his forgotten quill slowly dripping crimson ink onto a piece of parchment on the table in front of him. Slate grey eyes met amethyst across the room, and she could have sworn she saw a flicker of fear cross his face, before it was gone. More than ever she wanted to hurl something heavy at him; how could he not believe her when she said she hadn’t entered herself as a champion? The _last_ thing she wanted to be doing this weekend was facing a full grown dragon on her own. He stood up abruptly, leaving his books and essay on the table as he backed towards the dormitory stairs.

“Erm I’ll…leave you two alone…” He babbled, shooting another fearful look at Arya before he disappeared. She only realised she was still glaring at the place he had disappeared, when Sansa interrupted her thoughts.

“What _is_ going on between you two recently? I thought you were best friends?”

“Nothing is going on, alright? Anyway, it’s not really a priority at the moment…”

Half an hour later, Arya entered her own dormitory after telling Sansa everything she had found out that evening from Jon, about the dragons or otherwise. Her sister had been as alarmed about Bharbo as she had been, but still agreed that the dragons were the more pressing problem right now. With a few vague suggestions of spells she could use, as well as the promise of helping her look for a solution to the dragon problem in the week, Sansa sent her off to bed with a flowery-scented hug and a yawn. Arya didn’t feel tired at all.


	13. Chapter 13

The next day, Arya woke up late. She hadn’t slept well, having spent most of the night wracking her brains for a way to get past a dragon, without being incinerated in the process; and as a result was the only one in the dormitory when she got dressed. Still in a sleepy haze, she spent five minutes doing her tie, getting it wrong every time, and only realised at the last minute that she’d forgotten to put a skirt on altogether. When she’d finally got all of her clothes on the right way she rushed to the Great Hall to grab breakfast, but realised when slumping into a seat next to Meera that the smell of eggs was just making her feel nauseous. Dany was opposite them, halfway through a mild disagreement with Daario; she seemed to be refusing to help him with his forgotten Charms homework, which he was persistently still requesting that she write. Suddenly the Targaryen snapped, and as she launched into a tirade about him taking more responsibility for himself, Arya couldn’t help but flinch as well; the girl could be as fiery as her house sigil sometimes, she thought.

“Holy shit!” Arya exclaimed, standing up so quickly that Meera spat out her pumpkin juice next to her. How had she not realised it before? The answer to her problem was practically sitting in front of her.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten to do it as well?” Dany looked exasperatedly at her, and then faltered at Arya’s expression. “Arya, are you okay? You look…confunded?”

“Dany, I need you to come with me.” She blurted, scrambling up as quickly as possible from the table. Looking back, neither of her friends had moved, sharing a look that clearly showed that they thought she’d lost the plot. “Right _now_.” She practically yelled, tugging on Meera’s robe to show that she wanted her to come, too. She didn’t say a word until she had found the closest empty classroom, and rounded on her platinum blonde friend as soon as she door shut behind them all.

“Dany, I need you to tell me _everything_ you know about dragons.”

*

Two days later and Arya still didn’t have a clue how she was going to get through the first task tomorrow, and come out alive. She’d spent every spare minute in the library, always accompanied by Dany, Meera or Sansa. She was sure that between them they’d read almost every dragon-related book there was available in the Care of Magical Creatures section, and still hadn’t come up with anything that would be of any help when actually _facing_ one. Unfortunately Dany’s wealth of knowledge about dragons did not seem to help at all when needing to find a way to get past one; in fact she’d seemed horrified that they would be using dragons at all, believing it was animal cruelty. When Meera had pointed out that Arya was in reality the one being most cruelly treated, the Targaryen had huffed loudly, and buried her head in another book. Annoyingly, the library was almost always full of giggling fangirls nowadays too, trying to catch a peek of Khal Drogo whilst he studied. Curiously, he was almost always in the same section as Arya, reading up on dragons; it made her consider if she had in fact been the only one to get a sneak preview of the first task. She had spotted Martell in the dragon section too, but instead of reading inside the library she noticed that he preferred to take the books away, presumably to the Beauxbatons ship. She wondered how much help he was getting from his headteacher father, despite the rules of the competition clearly stating that the champions were not allowed to accept help from any of their professors. Although, if he somehow knew about the dragons too, she supposed neither Martell was particularly fussed about sticking to the rules of the competition. She certainly didn’t feel as guilty that Jon had shown her what she was up against, anyway. The only champion that didn’t seem to have any idea about the first task was Asha, but that wasn’t Arya’s problem. She certainly wasn’t going to give the girl any hints; semi-friendly or not, she _was_ still a Slytherin.

Sansa and Meera had drifted off to get lunch whilst Arya and Dany still flicked frantically through books; Arya was starting to feel despondent, and had even removed her watch and shoved it in her bag, so that she didn’t have to look at the hands ticking away the hours until the first task. Dany’s constant whispering by her side was only serving to make her feel worse.

“Well we haven’t thought about switching spells…if we switch out parts of the dragon so it’s less dangerous I suppose that would work…swap out its teeth for marshmallows or something? The trouble is obviously that the scales are too thick for many spells to penetrate, like Jon said. And about going for the eyes…I guess you could try something like conjunctivitis spell; but then that runs the risk of making it panic and get even more angry, and-”

“Dany,” Arya said, through gritted teeth. “Will you shut up for just a minute, please? I’m trying to read.” The problem was, that as soon as she stopped speaking, all Arya could hear was the dull static buzz of her own brain, and the incessant giggling of the girls spying on Khal Drogo. At least his presence meant he still hadn’t figured it out either, she thought with a glimmer of hope. Noticing the way her best friend stiffened next to her since her outburst, she found her hand underneath the table and squeezed. “Look…I’m sorry; I’m just on edge, is all.” She whispered, earning a squeeze back. “Anyway, a conjunctivitis curse doesn’t exactly scream _daring_ , does it?” She half laughed at her hopeless situation, as Dany shrugged sadly.

Arya skipped lessons that afternoon, hiding under Robb’s invisibility cloak in the library to make sure she wasn’t found by any of her teachers. Champion or not, she was certain that none of them would be very happy that she’d skipped a whole afternoon of NEWT classes. She hadn’t told Meera or Dany about the cloak though; for some unexplainable reason she’d wanted to keep it secret. It was her final escape from everyone else when things got too much, and she selfishly wanted it all to herself.

When the bell rang signalling the end of the school day, she couldn’t stand the thought of spending another night in the library, and raced off towards the quidditch pitch instead, still invisible. She needed a breather, time to think whilst high up in the air with the chilly afternoon breeze against her skin. And sitting in the library getting a headache wasn’t helping her at all. Passing the hundreds of students shooting off to their common rooms, it was a great relief for the first time in weeks not to be openly heckled in the corridors by a Slytherin calling her a liar, or quoting the damned Daily Prophet article. She only shoved the cloak back into her bag when she reached the Gryffindor changing rooms, finding them empty. Having brought no kit with her, she improvised; quickly ripping off her school tie and throwing on an abandoned beater jersey that was hanging to one side of the changing rooms that came down almost to her knees. Judging by the size and familiar scent of the material, she judged it to be Gendrys. When she threw open the broom cupboard to grab her Firebolt however, she stilled, suspiciously eyeing the tiny roll of parchment that had been tied to the handle of her broom. Was this a trick? A trap? Glancing round her once more showed that no-one else was in the changing rooms, so she reached forward and yanked the parchment away, unrolling it gingerly, as if waiting for something to jump out at her. Nothing did however, and all that was written on the secret note were two words, in scrawling crimson ink;

_Be Daring_

*

Arya wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting cross-legged on the floor of the changing rooms staring at the scrap of parchment before Gendry walked in, but the sudden movement made her flinch, as she looked up at his slightly bewildered expression. She stood sluggishly, tiptoeing to stretch out the leg cramp she’d only just realised she had. Must have been sitting for a while, then.

“Arya? What are you… wait is that my jersey?” She blinked, looking down at where he was indicating. She’d completely forgotten about her frantic search for something to fly in. Ignoring the question, she stared at Gendry for a second, thinking, before walking up and thrusting the parchment under his nose.

“Was this you?”

“Was this…what? Arya what are you on about?” He studied the two words, and she studied his features. The look that shot across his features looked like confusion, not recognition.

“Be daring? What is this?”

“A clue. For the task tomorrow. I’ve got to get past a dragon.”

“You’ve got to _what_?” He dropped his kit bag, looking horrified, blue eyes filled with concern. He wasn’t even the one that was going to have to face the bloody thing!

“I’ve got to get past a dragon,” she repeated, in some way calmer than she’d been in days. “And you’re going to help me. Grab your broom. And your bat.”

Somehow, whilst sitting on the floor staring at the scrap of parchment she’d been left, Arya had come up with a plan. Someone was trying to help her, and she intended to let them. She was almost completely certain that she knew who had left the note, and therefore knew that she could trust the advice wholeheartedly. It was brilliant, really. She didn’t know why she hadn’t come up with it herself. The trick was not to use magic on the dragon, but on herself. Or, to help herself anyway. It had taken multiple full-grown wizards to stun the dragon the other night; and she had neither the assistance of several other wizards, nor the benefit of a complete magical education. No, the dragon would be too magically powerful for her to subdue, so she’d have to find a way around it. And that way would be through the air. If anyone ever asked Arya what her strengths were, quidditch was sure to be one of them; and getting past a dragon by _flying_ was definitely daring. The courage was a little trickier; she knew what she was facing so it wasn’t exactly courage in the face of the unknown, but it would do. The part that she would have to work on would be the spell- Jon had said the same as Daenerys, the same as all the books; that dragons had excellent hearing. So she would have to do it wordlessly, is all.

They practiced for hours; Arya would stand in the middle of the pitch and wordlessly summon items, whilst Gendry flew around her, throwing them further and further away as she got better. When it got dark, she retreated to the Room of Requirement and he followed, watching and occasionally encouraging as she sent items zooming around the cavernous space. At two o’clock in the morning Arya stood near the doorway, surrounded by heaps of objects from all around the room: old potions books, quills, chess sets, an old bird cage, several broken chairs and a dusty old History of Magic tome the size of a small child all laid at her feet. Only in the last hour had she really got the hang of the charm, getting it right every time.

“Well, you’ve definitely improved since you almost knocked me out with your broom.” Gendry joked, sinking into an armchair a few feet away that she’d sent gracefully flying towards them only moments ago.

“Definitely more controlled now, yes.” She agreed, sighing. “I just hope it’s enough tomorrow. I’ll be a lot further away from my broom, then.”

“It’ll be fine. Remember how far it came the first time you tried it? Almost the entire way across the castle; and that was without practice. You’ve nailed it now. All you need to do tomorrow is-”

“Steer well clear of a bloody great dragon, yeah I know…”

“Best be getting back to the tower now though…you’re gonna need some sleep.” Silently, she nodded, only just realising how exhausted she was.

*

Arya had been focusing so hard on practicing the summoning charm the previous evening that she’d all but forgotten to panic about the task; however the next day the anxiety returned tenfold, like a really bad case of pre-match jitters. The atmosphere as she went down to breakfast was one of excitement and anticipation; Saturday morning lessons had even been cancelled for the older years, to give time for all students to get down to the dragons enclosure at one, although of course they would not know what the stadium held until the task started.

Arya felt oddly separate from the rest of the school; it felt like they were wishing someone else good luck, or patting someone else on the arm with their best wishes. Even when Joffrey Baratheon hissed at her that he’d have a coffin ready, she felt nothing but detachment. The morning passed in such a haze that she couldn’t remember a thing she’d managed to accomplish, other than stare blankly at her History of Magic homework for a few hours, before descending to the Great Hall with the others. Her plate of food sat untouched; all she’d managed to force down that morning had been a sugary cup of tea poured for her by Aegon. She’d barely even registered who had handed it to her, until she’d got a whiff of vanilla and woodsmoke, and managed what she had thought to be a vague smile.

Professor Dondarrion eventually came and found her at the lunch table in the Great Hall, where Dany was braiding her hair in the Valyrian fashion, to keep it out of her eyes when she was on the broom. Even that felt separate; like someone else’s hands were working their way through her hair, or touching her scalp. The head of Gryffindor house looked nervous when he approached; like he was worried Arya might be startled if he spoke.

“Stark…the champions have to come down onto the grounds now. It’s time to get ready for the first task.”

“Okay.” She heard herself saying, as Dany patted her head to indicate that she was finished with the plait. Meera smiled encouragingly, and Daario said something vaguely inspiring, but Arya felt lots of other people staring as she stood up to leave. Aegon sat across the table, and amethyst eyes locked with hers as he repeated the words he had left attached to her broomstick the day previously; “Be daring.” She just nodded, unable to say anything else at this point, and solemnly followed Dondarrion out of the Great Hall. He looked nearly as anxious as Sansa had been this morning when Arya had told her of her plan. As he walked her out of the castle and down through the Hogwarts grounds, he put a hand on her shoulder in what she assumed he’d intended to be a fatherly gesture of support.

“Now, don’t panic. Just keep a cool head…there’s lots of trained wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand. The main thing is to do your best, okay?” Arya remembered what Martell had told her, about Dondarrion not believing she was strong enough to handle the news that they thought someone was trying to kill her; she wondered what was going through his head now, as he steered her towards the literal fire-breathing monster that awaited her in the forest. “Are you alright, Arya?” The use of her first name snapped her back to the real world again.

“Yes.” She found the detached voice saying. “Yes, I’m fine.”

They walked in silence for the rest of the journey, and Arya couldn’t help but notice how far away from the school the enclosure really was; she hoped her last minute practice the night previously had been enough. As they finally reached the enclosure, Arya was surprised to see that a large marquee-like tent had been erected in front of it; obscuring what she now knew to be the dragons from view. Renly Baratheon was outside, and greeted Arya warmly with his usual arm around her, and a shoulder squeeze. The brotherly gesture only served to remind her that Jon was probably the other side of the towering enclosure walls, waiting to save her from a fire-breathing dragon in the very near future. Dondarrion offered her some final words of encouragement and continued onwards to the stadium, and Baratheon led her inside the tent. A small changing area was to the side, and Renly nudged her towards it, before carrying on towards the main middle part of the tent himself. Four separate compartments labelled with the champions names were inside the changing area; Arya’s space contained a single hanger, with a set of black and crimson outer robes that resembled the sort she wore for quidditch matches. They even had ‘Stark’ emblazoned across the back in bold crimson font. How very fitting. She pulled the dark robes on over her black turtleneck sweater and faded dark grey leggings, tugging the crimson laces tight around her neck and wrists, as if hoping it would provide her with some kind of protection from the dragonfire. Tucking her wand into the inner pocket, she quickly glanced at herself in the mirror before leaving, and did a double-take. At first she thought maybe she’d mistook the mirror for a portrait, but upon closer inspection saw that she was most definitely looking at herself, just…different. The Arya Stark in the mirror had her hair braided intricately back into a warriors plait, that emphasised her cheekbones and how her brow was set into a hard glare. Her skin was milky pale (she assumed from lack of sleep and constant worrying over the last few days) and her lips were flushed almost red, from being constantly bitten that morning. She’d assumed at first that the robes were similar to what she wore playing quidditch, but now they were on and paired with her high necked sweatshirt and Doc Martens, she saw they resembled something closer to what aurors wore. For the first time she saw what other people did when they told her she looked like Lyanna; she looked like a fighter. She looked like a champion.

Emboldened by her sudden burst of confidence, Arya strode into the main area of the tent. Trystane Martell was sitting in a corner on a low bench, staring resolutely at the floor, looking a great deal paler than usual, contrasting with his robes of deep orange. Asha was the other end of the bench, face set hard in a stare and wearing identical robes to Arya, only hers had dark green accents where hers had crimson. Khal Drogo was leant up against the central pole of the tent, looking if possible even surlier than usual, in robes of dark grey with gold accents. None looked as though they had just received an injection of confidence. Trystane looked as though he was close to being sick. In a blinding contrast to the sullen attitude of the students, the witch in the corner talking to Renly had a broad smile plastered upon her face, and was twirling her blonde hair around a taloned finger enthusiastically as she registered Arya’s entrance. Lynesse Hightower was the _last_ person she wanted to see right now. The photographer sitting next to her that had just taken a candid snap of Arya as she walked in followed at a close second, though.

“Arya! Excellent! Now we’re all here…” Renly Baratheon looked incredibly excited, and incredibly out of place among the morose faces of her fellow champions. He turned to face her, blocking Lynesse and her photographer out of view. She had the sneaking suspicion that it had been on purpose. “Okay, gather round then if you please, champions.” Renly reached into an inside pocket of his robes, and produced a small drawstring bag, as Arya and the others formed a circle next to him. “The audience should be arriving shortly, so we’d best get started. In a minute you are each going to pick a small model from this bag,” he shook it excitedly, and Arya eyed it nervously. A small trail of smoke had just emerged from within. “The model you will pick out is what you will face when you enter the arena just behind this tent. There are different…varieties, you see. You will each face a different one. And the object,” he looked round at them expectantly now, clearly expecting to see excitement rather than stony fear. “Is to retrieve the _golden egg_!”

Arya looked round as as Lynesse let out a small squeal and the shutter of the camera clicked several times, none of the champions seemed shocked at the revelation of the golden egg; like her, she assumed, they all looked rather nauseous. At least they had all volunteered for this, she thought bitterly; as the sound of hundreds of feet could be heard approaching the tent. If her name hadn’t been put in the bloody Goblet of Fire, she’d be out there with all the rest of the school right now, laughing, joking and getting excited about witnessing the event. But alas, she was stuck inside a marquee about to find out which monster she would be facing in a few short moments. Baratheon took their silence for understanding and was beginning to open the silk bag, offering it to each champion in turn, starting with the first drawn from the goblet. Drogo pulled out a perfect miniature model of a Chinese Fireball, with a tiny number three around its neck, Martell put a slightly shaking hand into the bad and withdrew it holding the tail of a Welsh Green wearing the number two, and Asha gingerly removed the Swedish Short-Snout, number one. Neither of the boys showed any sign of shock or surprise, all but confirming Arya’s theory that they had known about the dragons all along too. Asha only looked slightly alarmed, leaving Arya to wonder if perhaps she had known about the first task, too. But from who, that was the question? Knowing what was left for her in the bag already, Arya reached in and resignedly pulled out her own miniature dragon; the Hungarian Horntail, with the number four around its neck. The dragon hissed and snarled at her, biting into one of her fingers with surprisingly sharp fangs, drawing blood. Of course she would end up with the Horntail. If the miniature one was this vicious, she dreaded to think what she would face in the enclosure shortly.

“Well, there you are! One dragon for each of you!” Baratheon beamed, as if he had just handed them each a present, not a scale model of the nightmare each of them was about to face. “The numbers refer to the order in which you will take on the dragons…so it looks like it’s ladies first with Miss Greyjoy! There will be a whistle in a short while, and that is the signal to head out into the arena…” Arya allowed her attention to wander, starting to feel the cold trickle of dread set in again. This was _it_ now; she knew what she was facing. What she was facing _very_ soon, in fact. The urge to summon her broom and just fly away suddenly grew very quickly, and then faded away as she heard her name being said. Snapping back to attention she looked round, but no one was talking to her. The other champions had all returned to their previous positions, no doubt worrying like her, and Renly seemed to be being interviewed in the far corner of the tent, Lynesse’s magical quill and notepad hovering behind her and scribbling away frantically. Arya hoped that she wouldn’t be next. The voice whispered again though, and she spun around, realising that it was coming from the mouth of the tent. Glancing to make doubly sure that no one was paying attention to her, Arya backed out of the main room, to see Gendry Waters awkwardly standing at the mouth of the champions tent.

“Gendry?”

“Hi.” He blinked, with that same confunded expression he sometimes wore around her. Did he think that she looked like a champion too? Or did he see the worry in her eyes, the fear? Arya sometimes had the feeling that Gendry was more perceptive than his grumpy outside exterior let on.

“What are you doing here? I don’t think you’re allowed…”

“Oh yeah for sure… I’m _definitely_ not allowed to be here I just erm… I just wanted to say good luck, you know? I didn’t get a chance to see you this morning and…” He left the rest unsaid and she tensed. He wanted to say goodbye in case she got chewed up and spat out again by a bloody great dragon. “You look bloody dangerous in that outfit, you know that?” He smirked then, looking her up and down appreciatively, breaking the stiffness that had rested in the air. In three short strides Arya was kissing him passionately, tiptoeing with her arms around his neck. His arms curled around her waist, lifting her off her feet temporarily as he squeezed her tightly. If this was going to be one of the last acts of her life, she wasn’t mad about it. Their embrace was cut short by the rapid clicking off a camera. Horrified, Arya broke the kiss, whirling round to see Lynesse and her cameraman; the reporter looked like she’d just won the lottery. To add even more embarrassment, Renly Baratheon was stood just behind Lynesse with a curious expression on his face, half annoyance and half delight.

“Well, I ought to be getting to the judges panel,” Renly said in an amused voice, ushering the Daily Prophet pair forward and out the door, past Arya and Gendry. Arya was still standing horrified, one arm wrapped around his neck, not sure if she wasn’t letting go because of embarrassment, or because letting go meant she had to next face a dragon. “Miss Stark, you really should be getting back inside too, the task is about to start.” She slowly detached herself from Gendry, who looked down at her with blazing eyes, as if he was trying to inject some courage into her. Renly was now parallel with the pair, and shared a look with Gendry that Arya couldn’t quite place. Up close, they looked eerily similar, all broad shoulders, dark hair and blue eyes; if Arya didn’t know any better she would have thought they could be brothers. Baratheon reached out and gave Arya’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, before clapping a hand on Gendrys shoulder and leading him away from the tent. Arya retreated inside, mystified.

One by one the other champions left the tent to face their dragons. It was worse than Arya could have imagined, just sitting there and listening to the noises the crowd made, as she sat inside waiting her go, trying not to picture the scene that was playing out behind the canvas. Someone was commentating, which made it much worse somehow; Arya could do nothing but sit and listen as the disembodied voice said things like “Ooh, narrow miss there” and “She’s taking risks, this one!” as a dragon roared and screeched. Finally Arya was left alone in the tent, waiting alone. She waited and waited, and she tapped her foot against the ground, and she bit her lips again until one started to bleed; and finally the shrill sound of a whistle blew. It was her turn.


	14. Chapter 14

Arya stood up, vaguely wondering if her shaky legs were even going to be able to walk her towards the arena, or whether they would give way from underneath. She’d felt so confident and brave just a short while ago; now her boots felt too big, and the champions’ robes didn’t feel right, like she was in fancy dress. She walked out through the exit that all the others had taken before her, and along a thin wooden tunnel that resembled the same one she walked through on quidditch match days. The resemblance made her laugh out loud, to her own astonishment. Reaching the end of the tunnel eventually, she saw for the first time the arena in its full glory. The stands high above that she had seen before were now packed with hundreds of faces; students watching her entrance with rapt expressions. The enclosure had been turned into a kind of habitat, with low trees and jagged rocks now filling the space between her and the Hungarian Horntail, who was crouched at the other end. Worryingly, scorch marks were visible on a few of the rocky outcrops, and a tree was still smoky lazily to one side of the enclosure. At the dragons’ feet, she could make out a clutch of eggs the size of her head; one was a glimmering, shimmering gold.

The dragon had noticed her entrance the other end of the stadium, and was now snarling, her large yellow eyes focused solely on Arya as she thrashed her spiked tail around, leaving deep gashes in the rocks surrounding her. So much for the element of surprise. A thrill of panic shot through Arya as she realised her rough plan for silently sneaking up on the dragon was already ruined. She was going to have to think on her feet, now. She took in her surroundings for a second, developing a strategy. The dragon and her eggs seemed impossibly far away. The amount of noise the crowd was making would help to confuse it though, she thought. She wasn’t sure if the shouting and commotion was all friendly but that didn’t matter. Silently praying to the gods for her plan to work, she closed her eyes next, focusing with all her might on her broom, in the purposely unlocked cupboard of the quidditch changing rooms.

_Accio…Accio…Accio._

She waited; every fiber of her being was concentrated on her broom, hopefully flying towards her at this very second. The crowd had gone all but silent now, watching in disbelief as the small girl just stood there with her wand out, doing nothing. What if it hadn’t worked? What if she was too far away? What if she wasn’t powerful enough to summon anything over that distance? What if all her hours practicing the silent spell had been for nothing? A whooshing noise soon alerted her to something coming towards her however, and relief washed over Arya as she opened her eyes to see the Firebolt zooming over the top of the stands. Her needle swooped downwards towards the enclosure and as it approached she jumped, landing on top of it as it shot upwards into the air again. The crowd had started making a commotion again, the commentator was shouting excitedly into their microphone, but Arya wasn’t listening, she was circling high above the stadium, oddly feeling as though someone had tipped a bucket of hot water over her. She was almost giddy. Suddenly she didn’t feel afraid anymore; all her fear had been left on the jagged rock when she’d jumped onto her broom. This was just like another game of quidditch, that’s all. The golden egg was just like a golden snitch really, she thought. Except much, much bigger. And protected by a fire-breathing monster. But she’d faced opponents almost as scary on the Slytherin team. She _could_ do this. She just needed to divert its attention for long enough to grab hold of her egg.

Arya dived. The Horntail, who had been following her progress round and round the stadium, followed her with narrowed eyes. Arya judged what the dragons next move was going to be and pulled out of the dive at the last second, narrowly missing a jet of fire that the beast had shot towards the air where she’d just been. No more difficult than dodging a bludger, really. Flying upwards again, Arya could hear the roar of the crowd louder than ever.

“Merlin’s beard! This girl can _fly_!” Arya looked down as the commentator yelled into the microphone, and was happily surprised to see Renly Baratheon holding the microphone, looking up at her with an awed expression on his face. She circled high in the air again, making sure the dragon was watching her every move, its gigantic head moving backwards and forwards as it followed her dizzying path in the sky. Just before she was sure it was about to launch another jet of fire, she dived again, getting closer than before. Too late she realised that she had swooped too close to its other end however, and her lapse in concentration meant that she was forced to dive sideways on her broom to avoid being hit full-on by its tail. One of the spikes caught her shoulder as she rose up again, ripping her robes and sending a sharp sting through her right arm. The crowd groaned collectively, but the cut didn’t seem to her to be that deep, and she flew up once more to her vantage point above the beast, undeterred.

Twice more she dived; narrowly avoiding jets of fire shot at her, but still didn’t manage to get any closer. The Horntail still didn’t seem to want to take off, Arya realised, circling high again. She was still protecting her eggs fiercely; even as she writhed and twisted and hissed at Arya, the beast was too scared to move too far away from her clutch. In any case, she seemed to be chained to the ground still, limiting her movement. An idea suddenly flashed into Arya’s head, like a bolt of lightning. A stupid, reckless idea…but an idea nonetheless. If she wasn’t killed by the dragon, she was sure her own mother would kill her after attempting this. But it was _daring_. And she was all out of other ideas.

Arya circled above the Horntail once more. Not close enough to be incinerated, but close enough to pose a threat to her eggs if she wanted. The beasts’ fangs were bared, smoke was drifting slowly out of its nose, and her head was swaying from side to side, as if wondering what this small annoyance in front of her was doing. Higher and higher Arya climbed, and the Horntail stood up on her hind legs finally, neck stretched out and mouth snapping, letting out an earth-shattering roar as it finally opened its wings wide and breathed another jet of fire, which Arya dodged. The dragon was shielding the eggs from view, protecting them still; but the heavy chain attaching her to the ground was now visible, and it was this that Arya aimed her wand at. The chain split with a resounding metallic crack and the dragon snarled again, furious that Arya had endangered her eggs with the small explosion. It hadn’t yet noticed that it had been freed.

“Come on…” Arya hissed, still flying back and forwards, going higher and higher. The crowd below seemed beside themselves. Several people were screaming. “Come and get me, you ugly beast. Come on, come up here…”Aiming her wand at the ground again, another small explosion cracked the rocks at the feet of the Horntail. Enraged, the dragon roared and reared up again, spreading her black wings wide at last. When extended to their full length, they reached almost the width of the stadium, Arya noticed with a gulp. Maybe unleashing a dragon into a stadium full of people hadn’t been the best idea. She wasn’t even sure it was allowed. Before she had time to reconsider her actions however, the beast had kicked off from the ground with surprising agility, and was now fully in the air, glaring at Arya with dangerous yellow eyes. The screams from below increased threefold. Jumping into action, Arya shot upwards again with a massive burst of speed, over the edge of the stadium and towards the forest. The dragon followed, unleashed from its bonds.

Arya accelerated as fast as she could on the Firebolt, pressing herself flat on the broomstick as it shot like an arrow through the air. Glancing behind her however, she noticed that the dragon was gaining on her fast, its vicious spiked tail swishing through the air behind it. Oh, her mother was _definitely_ going to kill her. But she had a slight advantage at least; the dragon was _huge_ , it had been the largest out of the lot of them, and would struggle to change direction very quickly. In her perverse game of dragon quidditch; the Horntail was the equivalent of a very big, very ugly beater. And beaters were not as agile as seekers.

She had almost reached the castle now, zooming high over the trees at the top of the forbidden forest, and was seized with another stupid idea as she changed direction straight towards it. The eastern side of the great fortress shot up out of the cliff face; hundreds of feet of sheer rock stretched before her like the wall. Deliberately slowing herself down, the dragon had a chance to gain on her. At the last second, before it unleashed another fiery torrent at her broomstick, Arya moved. She made a steep curving dive, going upside-down on the broom and shooting off in the opposite direction whilst gripping on for dear life. To even her own amazement, she was now flying upside down underneath the dragon itself, and within moments had shot into the trees again, righting herself on the broom as a resounding thump sounded from somewhere behind her; the unmistakable sign of a large flying creature hitting the mountainside at great speed.

She shot out of the trees next to the stadium and sped towards the clutch of eggs, letting go of the broom with one hand as she smoothly scooped up the egg, with the unerring skill of a seeker. As she lazily flew around the inside of the arena one final time, it was like the volume had been turned up. Cheers and shouting erupted round her as she felt herself laughing from ear to ear, waving the egg around in triumph.

“Look at that!” Renly Baratheon was yelling into his microphone. “The youngest champion is the first to get her golden egg! Spectacular flying, Miss Stark! Courage and daring, indeed!” Arya landed gracefully onto the outcrop where she had entered the arena, next to Renly’s podium, where Jon and several of his fellow dragon-tamer colleagues were standing, looking slightly on edge. Her brother on the other hand was beaming at her, and pulled her in for a tight hug immediately after she landed.

“Fucking amazing!” He shouted into her ear over the din. “Absolutely fucking amazing! Now, where’s my bloody dragon?”

“I think I knocked it out!” She shouted back, almost laughing with relief that the task was over and she’d done so well, as well as disbelief that she’d just managed to knock out a fully grown dragon. “It’s on the east side of the castle.” She handed Jon her broom, and he shot off into the air with another tight hug and a laugh. His colleagues followed suit on their own brooms, looking less pleased than her brother had been at her method of dispatching the dragon. She supposed she _had_ just made their job considerably more difficult.

Her arm was throbbing, and the crowd was deafening, but Arya couldn’t help but beam as she realised that she’d got through the first task. She’d _actually_ done it. She felt lighter than she had done in weeks, and even the incessant flashing of a camera to her left side couldn’t dampen her spirits as Dany and Meera descended from the stands and pulled her in for a hug, the three of them jumping up and down while laughing together loudly.

“Arya that was fucking _incredible_!” Meera screeched, looking as ecstatic as Arya felt.

Dany wasn’t looking so thrilled however, and had seemingly just noticed Arya’s arm, slowly dripping blood onto the ground at her feet.

“Professor Dondarrion just saw us-he said you have to go to the first aid tent before you can get your scores from the judges. That was _amazing_ though, Arya…”

Dany and Meera pushed her towards the direction of the first aid tent, where Arya was met with the stern glare of Madame Mordane, who was remonstrating loudly to no-one in particular about the dangers of dragons. She forcibly pushed her down onto a chair in a cubicle similar to the one she had got changed in before the task; it seemed like a lifetime ago now. Mordane poked and prodded her arm with her wand to siphon away some of the blood, before patting it with a smelly yellow potion that healed it instantly, leaving a scar that looked several days old already. Through the white canvas, Arya could make out the outline of what seemed to be Asha sitting in the cubicle next to her, and wondered what she had done to get injured herself.

“Now sit here for a minute, please. _Sit_.” She warned again as Arya tried to stand up immediately, wanting to leave and join Dany and Meera in the stands. “You can go and get your score when _I_ say you can.” Spotting someone else that had just walked in the tent out of Arya’s sight, Mordane sighed and exasperatedly asked the newcomer to make sure Arya stayed sat down until she returned. The septa then bustled off into the next cubicle to speak to Asha.

Arya didn’t want to sit still. She was too full of adrenaline and relief to stay in one place at the moment. Before she had fully reached the doorway of her cubicle however, someone had darted inside. For the third time in the last few minutes, Arya was pulled into a tight hug. As the newcomer gripped her tightly and held the back of her head, Arya breathed in a familiar smoke and chocolate scent, and felt tendrils of platinum blond hair tickle her face as Aegon pulled away, still holding her as if she would disapparate before his eyes if he let go for a second. Aegon didn’t say anything, just stared at Arya with wide amethyst eyes; his normally tanned skin was unusually white as he blinked at her slowly, mouth parted.

“Arya,” he began slowly, voice crackling slightly like he’d been shouting. “Whoever put your name in that goblet…I think they’re trying to do you in...”

“Caught on, have you? Took you long enough.” She spat back coldly, glaring up at him with her chin stuck out. He faltered, loosening his grip on her shoulders slightly but not letting go. He opened his mouth as if he was about to apologise, but suddenly Arya felt like she didn’t need to hear it. She thought back to the note attached to her broom, and how it had probably saved her neck just now. She wouldn’t have thought of flying without him.

“It’s okay.” She whispered. “Forget it.”

But... I mean it, Arya. I shouldn’t _ever_ have doubted-”

“Forget it.” She insisted, reaching up and gripping onto one of the hands that held her. she squeezed, and smiled up at her best friend. Cool relief washed over his features, and he broke into a wide grin too, bringing her towards him again in a tight grip, and this time she responded in kind, curling her arms around his waist as he rested his chin on her head. Eventually, they broke apart again and Aegon put an arm around her shoulder once more, clearly believing that if he stopped touching her that she would vanish. “Come on, they’ll put your scores up soon…” Arya stooped to pick up her golden egg and they left the cubicle together. She was feeling more elated than she could have thought possible just over an hour ago when she picked her dragon model out of the bag.

“You were the best, you know. No competition. No one else tried flying, not even Drogo! World famous quidditch player and he didn’t even _think_ of it, the moron-”

“Aegon, _I_ didn’t even think of it.”

“Well, no, I guess not, _technically_. But you _did_ it, and that’s the main thing. Very daring.” He winked down at her, and ploughed on with his commentary. “Anyway, Drogo’s was probably the best after you. He did some sort of spell, hit it in the eyes and blinded it, but then it trampled half the eggs because it couldn’t see and he got marks taken off. Martell looked really confident at the start; tried some sort of sleeping charm, but then the dragon snored and shot some flames out of its nose, and his robes accidentally caught fire. So I guess he lost the plot a bit after that and didn’t want to get near it for a while. Got the egg eventually, though.”

“What did Asha do to end up in the medical tent?”

“Oh, she transfigured some rocks into dogs, to distract it I guess? But then the dragon seemed to change its mind and stopped paying attention to the dogs and tried to eat _her_. She was lucky to get away, really…”

They had reached the stadium again, just as Renly sat down at the microphone once more. The table with the other judges were only just behind the commentator’s podium, and it was seemingly time for them to cast their vote. Arya stepped closer to Aegon to confirm that she still wanted him there; he had been faltering slightly, unsure whether he should be out here or not. Upon her step closer, he squeezed her shoulder in reassurance. It felt so good to have him back. “It’s marks out of ten from each judge.” He whispered in her ear, as the whole stadium went quiet in anticipation. Martell went first; holding his wand up in the air, a silver number eight shot out of the end gracefully. As he looked down at Arya, she felt the familiar shiver of something unidentifiable that she always experienced when she was in the company of the strange man.

“Probably gave you marks off of because of the injury…” Aegon muttered in her ear again, motioning to the dried blood on her sleeve.

Mr Varys went next, who awarded her a nine. Next, Mormont; also a nine. He nodded at her slowly as he did so, and pride blossomed in her chest. Arya’s grin stretched even further. Renly Baratheon was next, and grinned widely down at Arya before shooting his own number into the air; _ten_.

“Ten?” Arya said in disbelief. “What’s he playing at? What about my arm?”

“Don’t complain! That’s amazing!”

Next it was Professor Bharbo, who glared darkly down at Arya before shooting the number four out of his wand. The crowd booed loudly, and Aegon made sounds of incredulity next to her. Arya glared right back at the Durmstrang headteacher, remembering what Jon had told her the other night. I’m not afraid of you, Death Eater, she thought. I’ve fought a dragon; I can take on you now, if I have to.

“That’s poor, that is.” Aegon complained next to her, shaking his head. “He gave Drogo a ten!” Arya didn’t care, though. Renly Baratheon had just announced the final scores, and she was tied in first place with Khal Drogo. She was joint first. She _hadn’t died_. Ecstatic, she jumped into Aegons arms again as the crowd erupted into noise once more, filing out of the stadium all together.

Jon appeared out of nowhere, briefly taking in the scene of his little sister in a close embrace with a boy before interrupting with a cough. Arya stood back, glaring at her brother as he stood looking in between the two, smirking.

“Dear sister, you didn’t tell me _Egg_ was your new boyfriend? I could have sworn I read it was Trystane Martell…”

“Oh, piss off.” She snapped, slapping him on the arm as Aegon shifted uncomfortably next to her at the sound of his childhood nickname and glared at Jon. Jon clearly enjoyed his discomfort as he grinned at the boy, before turning back to face Arya.

“You knocked poor Drogon out cold. There’s about ten wizards levitating her back to the cages right now.”

“Shit, really?” Arya wasn’t sure whether to feel guilty or impressed by her own skills. Jon seemed to pick up on her own hesitation however as he added;

“Yeah, really. That was _bloody_ impressive, I’ll give you that. Dad would have been proud, you know. Which reminds me, I’ve got to run…need to send an owl to mum, let her know you’re not dead! I’ll be staying in Hogsmeade for a couple of days though… I’ll get a message to you; we can continue our chat from the other night!” And with that he was gone as suddenly as he’d arrived, handing Arya back her Firebolt before he dashed off with a meaningful look. Ah yes, she’d almost forgotten; they still needed to work out who was trying to kill her. _That_ conversation was sure to ruin her good mood.

Passing through the tent on the way back to collect her clothes they met Asha with a bright orange paste covering half of her face, presumably mending her burn. She uncharacteristically grinned when she saw Arya.

“Nice flying, Stark. Shame you’re not in Slytherin. We could do with a seeker like you, instead of that twat Joffrey Baratheon.” Arya smirked back and was about to reply when she spotted Renly Baratheon behind Asha, who had clearly just heard everything she had said about his nephew. To her credit, she didn’t look embarrassed, and on the contrary Renly looked delighted to hear her speak about Joffrey in such a way.

“Excellent work today, girls.” He beamed down at them both, pulling on a heavy cloak as he walked past them with Mr Varys. “And you’re right,” he added, just before disappearing. “My nephew _is_ an insufferable little sod.”

Asha didn’t try to make any further conversation with Arya or Aegon as she walked up to the castle ahead of them, striding purposefully whereas they meandered back through the forest slowly, deep in conversation. Arya wanted to hear more about what the other champions had done in more detail, and Aegon wanted to know everything she knew about who would want to kill her. She had just began to tell him about Bharbo’s past as a Death Eater when a witch jumped out of the trees in front of them. Aegon jumped about a foot into the air. Arya just sighed, unfortunately used to the journalist and her constant hounding. She was surprised they hadn’t heard Lynesse coming though; she was wearing enough jewellery to satisfy even a niffler, and her eyes glinted with excitement as she swooped towards Arya, quill hovering behind her as usual. Thankfully, her photographer was nowhere to be seen.

“Congratulations Arya!” She squealed, beaming down at her before quickly glancing sideways at Aegon. Arya wondered with a slightly sinking heart what nonsense was going to be written about her this time. First she had caught her kissing Gendry in the tent earlier, now walking alone in the forest with Aegon. Arya was going to be made out as some kind of man-eater, she knew it. “I wonder if you could give me a quick word about the first task? How did you feel facing the dragon? How fair do you think the scoring was by the judges?” Hightower paused then, looking Aegon up and down properly, who squirmed under her intense gaze. “And maybe a few words on whom this handsome young man is? Do I detect a touch of Targaryen purple in those eyes?”

“Yeah, I can give you a couple of words,” Arya said, glaring at the witch. “Piss off.” And she stomped off, cloak fluttering as she strode away, tugging Aegon with her.


	15. Chapter 15

Arya slept all the rest of the afternoon, completely and utterly exhausted by her brush with the Horntail. She was rudely awoken by Meera however, who poked her in the head and told her she was going to the girl’s bathroom and Arya should come with her. A quick glance at the mirror told Arya why. She had pillow creases down one side of her face, there was crusted blood down one side of her robes (that she hadn’t even bothered to change out of before climbing in her bed) and her once-fierce looking braids now resembled a half-dreadlocked bird’s nest from being scrunched against a pillow. Not a fantastic look. A long hot shower gave her a chance to wake up slightly though, and also to attack her hair with sleakeazys conditioner in an attempt to untangle the braids that didn’t seem to want to budge. Daenerys had done a good job. Arya started to suspect that they were held together by magic, they were bound so tightly.

“Where is Dany, anyway?” She asked Meera, who was in the cubicle next to hers.

“In the library, you know her. Said she wanted to work on her Charms essay, I think…”

As Meera continued humming along to a song Arya didn’t know, she couldn’t help but feel something was off. She was sure Dany had finished her essay days ago, sitting _right_ next to Arya as she was researching dragons for the first task. She only remembered because Dany had knocked half a pot of ink all over her book, then got uncharacteristically apologetic and flustered whilst trying to clear it up and left the library altogether. She’d glared at the group of perpetually giggling girls as she’d left, the ones that always followed Khal Drogo around like lost puppies. At the time, Arya had been engrossed in her own problems, and just thought that maybe the irritating girls were what had caused her accident; but now she recalled the way the Durmstrang student had jumped up to help Dany, and the way his dark eyes had followed her across the room as she’d left. Interesting. _Very_ interesting. She would have to remember to keep an eye on that situation. Maybe if they started going out, Arya could ask for Drogo to put in a good word with some quidditch teams. Or maybe not, since his headteacher was possibly trying to kill her. Maybe it would be better for her to stay away, actually.

Arya dried herself off and pulled on her favourite outfit; a huge Bikini Kill t-shirt that she wore as a dress, a chunky cream cardigan, thick black socks and her faithful Dr Martens boots. It was the sort of thing her mother would moan at her for wearing; all bare legs, black palette and raging feminism. She even put on a little makeup while Meera was drying her hair in front of the bathroom mirror using her wand, a charm Arya had never learnt to master. Instead, her hair hung in still-damp tendrils down her back; she would have to make do with a dark red lipstick to complete her outfit, instead. She was intending to run into Aegon again tonight, and wanted to make sure she looked good. The bonus of wearing Targaryen colours was accidental, but felt right. She also needed to find Gendry and speak to him. Her surviving the task and subsequent making-up with Aegon had made her realise that whatever they were, couldn’t continue anymore. The sporadic kissing sessions of the past few weeks had been absolutely amazing, and had definitely helped to assuage her feelings of utter hopelessness and forget about her impending death, but she wasn’t really sure what was meant to happen next. She _liked_ Gendry, she really did, but in her heart she knew it wouldn’t ever be anything more. They were great teammates, and there was definitely _passion_ there too, lots of it, but they just didn’t really _talk_ much. A few months ago she was sure that he actually _hated_ her, because of how bad at communicating the pair of them were. She still wasn’t completely sure now; sometimes he looked at her like she was the most confusing thing on the planet, when she started rambling on about something. And he definitely grunted more than he said actual words, when they ever had a conversation. In her heart of hearts, she knew that she still liked Aegon; she had so much history with him, and had always harboured feelings that wouldn’t just go away. It wasn’t fair to Gendry to keep leading him on if he wanted more than just snogging in secret, and it wasn’t fair to herself to try and replace her feelings for Aegon with someone else, even if she was doing it unintentionally at first. For maybe the first time in her life, she had made the conscious decision to actually do the right thing. Maybe the giddiness of facing a full-grown dragon still hadn’t worn off.

As the Fat Lady swung sideways to admit them back into the common room, Arya was met with a wall of noise, and people that swarmed forward to bring her and Meera into the centre. To one side of the room, a table was piled high with cakes, pastries, pumpkin juice and butterbeer, and what looked suspiciously like a keg of beer, being surreptitiously served to the older years by Daario. Someone must have set off some everlasting Filibusters Fireworks as well; gold and scarlet sparks were shooting through the air, filling the room with a faint haze of smoke. Someone had enchanted the Gryffindor banner above the fireplace to roar loudly every time someone got to close to it, and another pair of hands draped a flag around her, managing to tie it round her neck before she could move away quick enough. She looked up to see Aegon, laughing as he tapped the knot with the tip of his wand, ensuring that it was well and truly tied on. He shared a knowing wink with her-last time she’d had the Gryffindor flag tied around her neck, she’d shouted at him and blown out all of the windows of a tower; she was glad they were on better terms now. She wanted to reach up and cling on to the handsome platinum-haired boy, and drag him away to somewhere they could have a proper catch up, away from the fireworks and noise, and _Val_. The bombshell blonde was visible close by, just over Aegon’s shoulder, beaming with happiness like all the other Gryffindors whilst also managing to look uneasy at Arya’s proximity to her boyfriend. If that’s what they even were. In their walk back up to the castle earlier, that was something the pair had glossed over, unconsciously or not. Too preoccupied with swapping accounts of the other champions’ dragon encounters and discussing the (steadily increasing) list of people who wanted to kill Arya, they had avoided the subject. It wasn’t something she wanted to approach tonight, anyhow, not when she was in such a good mood. No point ruining it yet.

Arya tried to forget about the fact that most Gryffindors still didn’t believe her when she said she hadn’t entered herself into the competition, and accepted every plastic cup of beer, every cake and congratulations over the next couple of hours. She played exploding snap with Daario and Meera, chatted with the younger years about quidditch, and even joined in the game of muggle twister that some seventh years were playing. From what Arya could make out, it just seemed like an excuse to get very handsy with people you fancied, which didn’t really bother her because Gendry was one of the other players, and now she’d had a drink. After collapsing on him for a second time in a row, he bent down to whisper conspiratorially in her ear as he was helping her up; “I’m starting to think you’re doing that on purpose, Stark.”

“I would _never_ think of doing such a thing, Waters.” She winked back, earning a raised eyebrow from Tormund who was close by.

“Stark! What’s the next task then?” The gigantic ginger barked at her, breaking the tension he had created.

“It’s in the egg, apparently.” She shrugged, realising she hadn’t yet bothered to open it; she’d been too relieved to have survived the task that it had all but slipped her mind. Seconds later and she’d darted upstairs and back to retrieve it from the foot of her bed where she’d thrown it hours ago.

“Should I open it?” She asked the common room at large, wondering if it was even within the rules to reveal the clue for the second challenge to everyone there. The unanimous clamouring answer was ‘yes’ however, and emboldened by the beer and her own continuing adrenaline from the first task, she twisted the top of the large metal egg and pulled. A loud shrill screech rang out, like Arya had just released a terrible banshee into the room. She yelled and dropped the egg in order to cover her ears, and it landed with a heavy metallic clunk on the stone floor, snapping itself shut again. She winced and looked up, her expression and hands on ears reflected in every other Gryffindor student in the room. Everyone was silent.

“Wish I’d never asked.” Tormund deadpanned, before letting out a hearty laugh and picking up the egg to hand back to Arya.

*

A short while later Gendry pushed his way through the crowds of students again to find her, a difficult task given that they were somehow being rowdier than ever. Someone had given firewhisky to some third years and all hell seemed to have broken loose as they ran amok around the room. Arya suspected Daario, who had since conveniently disappeared.

“Time to go.” He murmured in her ear, just loud enough for her to hear. Arya started in surprise at the hand on her back and the large quidditch captain mere inches from her face, but bid goodbye to Meera and Daenerys anyway and did as she was told, a thrill of excitement shooting through her at the prospect of some time alone with Gendry. Meera winked at her knowingly as she jumped up from the chair she had been lounging in just seconds before. “Wear something warm, we’re going outside. And bring the invisibility cloak.” He bent down to murmur through her curls once more, earning a raised eyebrow from Arya. How did he know about the cloak? And where on earth were they going?

Minutes later and Arya was bounding down the dormitory stairs again, cloak wrapped around her to avoid being stopped and marauders map stuffed into the waistband of the jeans she had hastily scrambled into, along with a jumper and an extra thick pair of socks inside her trusty boots. Squeezing past students whilst invisible was no easy feat, and she accidentally stepped on Alys’ foot as she squeezed past the girl, earning a startled look that went right through her, before Arya slid past again. Gendry was leaning on the wall outside the portrait hole, and Arya couldn’t resist the opportunity to sneak up on him and dramatically pull the cloak off, scaring the usually stoic beater.

“Very jumpy today, Waters.”

“Don’t bloody do that, then.” He looked sharply down at her, scowling.

“How did you know I had this anyway? And where are we going that I need to be invisible and wear _two_ pairs of socks?” She scurried after him as he strode off towards the staircase, almost put-out that he hadn’t yet tried to pin her up against a wall and kiss her. What was he up to if not trying to get her on her own so he could do just that?

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“A man of few words today, I see also.” Arya scowled back at him and followed in silence as they descended towards the fourth floor, Gendry stoic as usual, and Arya tailing a short distance behind in a huff. They cut through a secret tapestry and along another thin corridor; ending up on a third floor corridor that Arya knew for a fact was a dead-end. What on earth was going on?

“Ready?” Gendry nodded towards her as he pulled out his wand.

“For _what_?!” Wild thoughts of Gendry luring her to a dead end just to curse her for ruining his chances at twister flashed through her mind. Instead, he scanned the corridor behind her for other people and then swivelled to face the statue of an old crone that guarded the dirty wall behind him, muttering. Arya stared open-mouthed as the metal crone and her plinth slid sideways, revealing a gaping hole in the brickwork that descended steeply into a black tunnel behind.

“How on earth…?” Arya allowed herself to be ushered into the passageway by Gendry, who followed in close behind as the hole closed. The scraping of stone on stone sounded from behind them and suddenly everything was pitch black. A wand lit up in front of her, throwing Gendrys’ face into view, and she mirrored his actions, not arguing when his calloused hand reached for hers, pulling her along the cold passageway.

“Watch out for the floor, it’s all rocky.” He murmured into the darkness.

“How did you know about this?” Arya asked incredulously, fighting the urge to pull her map from her waistband and consult it. The fact that it had never revealed to her the presence of a secret passageway here felt almost like a betrayal from the enchanted parchment. “I’ve never seen this before. Where is it going? How did you find this? Are we leaving the castle?”

“Hogsmeade.” Gendry replied nonchalantly, avoiding most of her questions. “Honeydukes cellar, to be more specific.”

“Why are we going to Hogsmeade?”

“We’re going to a…meeting I guess…”

“A _meeting_? Gendry what on _earth_ is going on?”

“Look, I don’t really know either, no one tells me anything. I just know that I’ve got to bring you to Hogsmeade to meet your brother, okay?”

“Okay…” They continued on in silence again, whilst Arya thought things over in her head. Jon knew as well as anyone that she didn’t need an escort out of the castle; he had literally given her the means to do so unnoticed when he had gifted her with the map all those years ago. She knew every way out (or so she had thought until several minutes ago) and every way back in again. With the invisibility cloak as well, she was essentially undetectable. The only conclusion she could make from all the facts she knew then, was that Jon was worried enough about her to send her with a bodyguard, in the form of Gendry Waters. And that then led to even more questions; like how on earth Gendry knew a way out that she didn’t. And how Jon knew that Gendry could be trusted to get her out of the castle; what about her other friends…or even Sansa? Where _was_ her perfect sister anyway? Arya was starting to question whether she’d even seen Sansa in the common room earlier when the rough floor of the tunnel started to incline, and the pair were soon stood underneath a wooden trap door. Gendry jumped through first, revealing their surroundings as a dusty store cupboard, then reached down to pull Arya up as well. She barely had time to marvel at how easily he had lifted her, before he was telling her to put the cloak back on.

“Both of us?”

“Probably a good idea, yeah.” He decided, after considering. The pair walked slowly out of the dusty cupboard and through the darkened sweet shop, into Honeydukes street outside. Staying hidden was considerably harder work with both of them under the cloak; with Gendry having to crouch slightly to keep his feet covered up. He steered them towards the far end of the street, away from the hustle and bustle of witches and wizards that spilled from the more popular pubs and restaurants that lined the old cobbled road, and through the open front door of an inn that Arya had never noticed before. A wrought-iron mermaid swung above the entrance, and a strange mix of clientele were sat around the tables in the front parlour room. A man adorned with necklaces and a glinting golden tooth sat playing cards with a group of pretty young women near the fire, a rugged-looking couple in furs sat in one corner speaking a strange language that sounded suspiciously like wildling, and a man that looked eerily like a vampire was crouched over a book in the corner, drinking a deep red liquid out of a pint glass. The strange inhabitants of the pub didn’t seem to bother Gendry too much, who kept on walking towards the bar where a large shaggy red dog sat looking towards them, almost as if it could see through the enchanted fabric draped around them. It whined as they got closer, attracting the attention of a man who Arya assumed was the bartender. For the first time since they’d left the castle Gendry stilled, as if he hadn’t thought this far ahead. The shaggy red dog whined again and turned around, as if welcoming the pair in. Arya took the lead this time, _somehow_ knowing that she could trust the animal. It led them past the bartender; who either was very unobservant, or had deliberately stepped out of the way to let the invisible pair past, along a winding narrow passageway, and through a heavy wooden door that it pushed open with its paws before moving back to let them in first.

They were welcomed with a warmer sight than in the front room; Jon was lounging next to a crackling fireplace with a glass of beer in one hand, looking up at the door expectantly as it opened. Before Arya could pull off the cloak to announce herself however, it was pulled off from behind with a laugh.

“Would you look at this Jon? Becomes champion and thinks she can start breaking the rules…whoever has she got that from?” Arya whirled round to see her oldest brother, clutching the bundle of material in his hands and beaming at her from ear to ear.

“Robb!” She launched herself at the redhead, hugging him tight. It was only when she pulled away that she noticed the dark circles underneath his glittering blue eyes, and the way his robes hung off him looser than she’d remembered them being.

“What’s happened? Are…are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’ll explain in a second, anyway.” He turned to her escort and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, Gendry.”

“No problem, I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Good to see you again.” The beater nodded and retreated from the room. Arya was more confused now than ever. Gendry and Robb didn’t know eachother…did they?

“What…?”

“Take a seat; I’ll get you a drink and explain in a minute. Though by the smell of you, you’ve been celebrating that win already, little sister!” Robb chuckled lightly, and went to pour two glasses of firewhisky, handing one to her as he sunk into the armchair opposite her and Jon, who had greeted her with a shoulder squeeze and a nod towards the door that Gendry had just come from.

“Boyfriend number… three, is that?”

“No. Shut up.” She growled, taking a sip of her whisky and feeling the warmth spread through her. She changed the subject. “I guess I’m here so we can figure out who’s trying to kill me, then?” She tried to say it offhandedly, but couldn’t help the waver in her voice at the end of the sentence. Robb and Jon shared an uncomfortable look.

“Well…yes.”

Arya sighed. “And you think its Bharbo? That great brute Professor from Durmstrang?”

“As I said the other night Arya, he _was_ a Death Eater. And Dad was the one that caught him and got him locked up in the first place. He was one of the maniacs responsible for bringing those… _things_ to life before. He’s not exactly a saint. It might be his way of getting revenge on the man who locked him up. The Triwizard Tournament is known for its lack of survivors, as you well know.” Jon ran his hands through his jet black hair as Arya took a shaky breath in, thinking silently that she agreed with Jon. Anyone evil enough to be a part of the Night King’s army was demented enough to try and murder a teenage girl as well, in her opinion.

“But that doesn’t explain how he did it.” Robb interjected, taking a sip of his firewhisky as he looked at the logs slowly crackling away in the fireplace.

“Dark magic, surely? He would have known enough of it.”

“Right under Mormont’s nose? The man may be old but he’s not gone senile.”

“He can’t be everywhere at once, though. It would be easy enough for Bharbo to sneak in one night and put Arya’s name in the Goblet, maybe even get someone else to do it. I wouldn’t trust those students either. Everyone knows they teach the Dark Arts there.”

“You think he’s got accomplices then? Drogo, maybe?”

“Let me get this straight, Robb- you think Khal Drogo; a world famous quidditch player and seventeen year old _boy_ is trying to off our little sister?”

“Well, I wouldn’t rule it out. We can’t trust anyone at the moment.” The pair shared a dark look and Arya spoke up again, having watched the two talk back and forth with nervous interest.

“Pretty sure Ramsey Bolton has tried to kill me twice already this year, and he’s only a _sixteen_ year old boy,” she snarked. Robb’s look darkened at the name as he angrily took another sip of his whiskey.

“You stay away from him as much as possible, you hear me? That boy is bad news.”

“Yeah, no shit Robb. He tried to hex me in half the other day. But if you think for one second I’m just going to stand aside and let that grimy little-”

“Arya, I’m serious. Do not try and get back at him, okay? Professor Martell was right, stay away from Bolton and let the teachers deal with him, okay?” He took another sip of his drink as Jon made a sudden movement next to her. Arya looked at him questioningly as he shared a warning look with Robb. Suddenly something seemed to slide into place.

“I…never told you or Jon about Professor Martell…I never told anyone…” She looked angrily between the guilty faces of her brothers again. “Will one of you just bloody tell me what’s happening please?” A long moment of silence passed as the young men looked at eachother, as if silently arguing about what to do next. Jon seemed to win.

“Fine, Arya. What do you want to know?”

“Why is Professor Martell babysitting me? Why does Robb look like he hasn’t eaten in a week? How do you know Gendry and _why_ did he have to escort me over here in the first place? Since when do you have an invisibility cloak? And what the _fuck_ is going on with mum?”


	16. Chapter 16

They walked back to the castle in silence. In contrast to their walk earlier, Arya was grateful for the lack of conversation. She was quite content to stumble along without speaking, slightly shell-shocked and trying to wrap her head around everything that Robb and Jon had told her. Gendry gripped her hand again, leading her over the uneven ground of the secret tunnel, but it was as if he wasn’t even there. She’d found out everything she’d wanted to know- but now wasn’t sure it had been wise to ask in the first place. Her brothers had answered all her questions and more, and then sent her off on her merry way, as if her whole life hadn’t just been changed by what they’d told her: their dad had been murdered.

The good, honourable, great Eddard Stark had been poisoned. Poisoned at his own dinner table, in front of his entire family because he had discovered a secret too great for the world to know. What was the secret? Who had ordered the poison that had killed him? Jon and Robb didn’t know. Yet. But it had got their father killed. And it had almost got Robb killed, too.

Robb had been approached by Stannis Baratheon after the funeral of their father. The pair had fought together in the Great War, and Stannis was the head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. Eddard had set up a meeting with him, telling him he had information that Stannis needed to know, that no one else could find out about. A day later, he was dead. Robb had joined the Ministry as soon as he’d left school just months later, secretly under the tutelage of Stannis, both determined to find out what had happened and why. As the years went on, small pieces of the puzzle fitted together, but not enough to get the whole picture. But Robb must have been getting close, because one night he was attacked in his house. He barely managed to get out with his life, and had escaped to Romania to be with Jon, first making sure that their mother and Rickon were safe, up in hiding with their Aunt Lysa.

“But mum sent me a letter saying she was going to Uncle Edmure’s?”

“Of course she did, Arya. She wasn’t going to tell you where she was actually going, in case it got intercepted.” She had almost kicked herself for being so dim.

“And are they okay?”

“They’re _fine_ , Underfoot.” Robb had said, soothingly putting a hand on her knee, taking a break in his story for the first time to take a breather. “Just maybe-don’t send Nymeria if you ever write mum a letter anytime soon. She’s too noticeable to be visiting Aunt Lysa so much; send one of the school owls or something.”

“Okay.” She had said in a quiet voice, still taking it all in. “Who attacked you, though? Did you manage to get a look at them?”

“No. I barely managed to escape as it is. But…” Robb sighed heavily, looking to Jon as if asking permission to say the rest of his sentence. He nodded darkly.

“But…?” Arya prodded.

“They were wearing masks. Death Eater masks.”

“You don’t mean…?” She left the rest unsaid. No one had worn those masks in over fifteen years. All the Death Eaters had been locked up, or killed, or vanished into thin air after the defeat of the Night King. For someone to be seen wearing them again, for someone to be attacking someone else whilst wearing one could only mean one thing.

“They’re back.” Jon finished for her. “The Death Eaters are back…some of them at least. And if they’re back…we don’t know what…or _who_ else is, too.” Arya had been silent, then. A wave of utter helplessness had washed over her. Suddenly her fears about the Triwizard Tournament seemed miniscule in comparison. A second wizarding war could be just on the horizon, and the school and all the teachers were preoccupied with a stupid competition? It seemed ridiculous! Suddenly though, a platinum-haired girl seemed to swim by her vision, as her memory was jogged. The night of the feast where they found out about the tournament, what was it Daenerys had said…?

“The tournament…it was to bring us together. To form alliances?” she remembered out loud. Jon nodded.

“Some have seen it coming for years. Stannis and Renly Baratheon…Rugen Varys…the competition was their idea. We need to build up friendships, get others on our side if we want to stand a fighting chance against anything that we may have to face.”

“We? Who else _is_ on our side?”

“Uncle Benjen and the Nights Watch are ranging far north, looking for any signs of the Others-” Jon started, and Arya noted that for some reason he neglected to use the real name for the undead generals of the Night Kings’ army. He was probably trying not to scare her. Their father had always called them by their actual names, unlike most witches and wizards, so his children normally followed suit. He carried on, ignoring her temporary look of confusion. “And I’ve managed to recruit most of the dragon-keepers whilst I’ve been over in Romania. They’re pretty handy at their magic, and it can’t hurt to have a few fire-breathing monsters on our side, either.” He paused to take a sip of his drink, whilst Robb carried on with the small list of people they could trust.

“Mormont has also quietly reformed the Order of the Brotherhood-” He said, holding a hand up when Arya opened her mouth to ask a question “-with the people that fought last time; the ones that we know are loyal, anyway. The Red Viper, obviously; that’s how we knew about your run-in with him the other day. A handful of other Hogwarts teachers, too; Tarth, Dondarrion, Thoros, Baelish and Sandor. A couple of students with ties to other older members have joined as well, like your pal Gendry-”

“ _Gendry_?”

“Yes, Gendry-”

“But he can’t have ties to members of the old Order, he’s a muggleborn! Surely he can’t have known anyone in-”

“ _Raised_ in the muggle world but not muggle _born_ , dear sister. Ask him yourself some other time, will you? I’m trying to explain something important, here.” Arya had made a mental note to ask Waters what on earth was going on next time she had a chance, whilst Robb rattled off more names. “Tormund Giantsbane, Loras Tyrell and Sansa are the only other students I’m aware of at the moment… though Doran Martell has been supportive and is trying to quietly spread the word around his own students and staff, too. Oh-Trystane of course, too. Keep an eye on him, won’t you? I have a feeling he’s falling in love with Sansa…”

The revelation of so many names in quick succession barely left Arya with time to be shocked at one before she had to move onto the next. She almost couldn’t believe that Sansa had the balls to be part of The Brotherhood, and then felt slightly guilty about having such little faith in her own sister. Sansa was one of the smartest and bravest people she knew-if anyone was going to be part of something like this, it was her.

“When did you tell Sansa all this?” Arya asked weakly, drinking down the rest of her firewhiskey in one go. It seemed a long time ago that she and Aegon had spiked hot chocolates with the stuff in the library; before she was a champion, before she knew someone was trying to kill her…before she knew everything else.

“Earlier today. She left a little while before you got here. Said she needed some time to think.” Jon said, running his hands through his unruly curls as if trying to pull some stress away. Arya knew the feeling. She needed to think for about three days to wrap her head around all of this.

“And Bran? Who’s going to tell him?”

“Sansa will. Not all of it-he’s too young; but enough to reassure him that mum and Rickon are okay…and to let him know to be prepared, if he has to be.” Poor Bran, only fourteen and already having to think about being in a war.

“Don’t worry about Bran; he’s stronger than you think.” Robb’s face softened and he reached across to squeeze Arya’s knee. “Just focus on the tournament, on getting through in one piece. It could be years before anything happens, if it even happens at all. If you need to speak to us though- I’ll be travelling about a bit for the Brotherhood and Jon will be in Romania, but Nymeria should be able to find either of us with no trouble. Just be careful what you send, is all.” Arya nodded silently, with the distinct feeling that the conversation and time with her brothers was coming to an end.

“Stay in touch.” Jon smiled, ruffling her hair like he used to when she was younger. “Try not to fall out with Sansa, you need eachother. And be _careful_. Don’t go wandering around on your own like you normally do.”

“I don’t-”

“-You _do_. Don’t trust _anyone_ you’re not sure of, either. We’re not sure who is and isn’t on our side at the moment, and it’s best to be safe. Professor Mormont and the other teachers are obviously looking out for you but don’t go _looking_ for trouble, okay? You can tell Dany, Egg and Meera about what we’ve told you if you want, but _no-one_ else. Stick with Gendry when you can, and don’t draw too much attention to yourself at school.”

“That means no more fighting Slytherins in-between classes. No matter how much they wind you up” Jon admonished, as Arya struggled to take in everything she’d just been told.

“And don’t lose my cloak, either.” Robb said, handing the bundle of silvery material back with a rueful smile.

“You mean I can keep it?”

“ _Temporarily_ , you can keep it. Your need is greater than mine right now…and I have other ways of going unseen. Just-don’t let Sansa know you’ve got it still, okay?”

“I won’t.”

Sensing somewhat that she was being dismissed so they could talk about other things, Arya tightly hugged her brothers goodbye, wondering sadly when she would see either of them again. As per their instructions she located Gendry again, who had been waiting for her at the other end of the narrow corridor. They covered themselves with the cloak again before leaving the strange pub, heading back towards Honeydukes dusty store cupboard.

*

The next week passed in a blur. Numb shock was the only emotion she really had to describe how she felt, though she supposed anxiety had creeped in there along the way also. She did as she was told, avoiding Slytherins in the corridors at every opportunity, putting her head down in class and keeping herself to herself as much as she could. She stayed as busy as was humanly possible, practising quidditch every day after school was over and writing essays in the common room until she fell asleep by the depleted fire, exhausted.

The day after seeing her brothers, she had spilled everything to Dany and Meera in the prefects’ bathroom, after making sure it was completely empty and devoid of nosy ghosts who liked to inhabit the pipes and listen into the students’ conversations. They reacted the same way she imagined they would; with surprise and shock, then fear at what was to come next. Dany seemed to take the news worse than Meera, though Arya supposed she would, given that her dad had died sacrificing himself to bring about the end of the Night King. The idea that he was still alive and his sacrifice was all in vain…she couldn’t even begin to imagine how she must be feeling. She hadn’t had a chance to speak to Aegon yet properly, as he had been glued to Val’s face at seemingly every waking moment. The sight made her queasy, and as a result she’d also started avoiding mealtimes in the Great Hall, choosing instead to avoid food altogether, or to sneak down to the kitchens and charm the house elves into giving her something to eat instead.

The next opportunity to speak to him didn’t materialise until the Friday after the task. She had skipped breakfast as usual and went down to Sandor’s hut early, both to pilfer some food and to avoid the usual scene at breakfast; wherein Val would feed Aegon pancakes off her own fork whilst giggling like she was twelve years old. Nauseating. She was surprised that Aegon was tolerating it; he was never the sort to shy away from female attention, but even _he_ would normally draw the line at ostentatious public displays of affection such as that. If they hadn’t had their own confusing situation going on just a few weeks ago, she would have poked fun of the whole thing as much as Daario was doing. Unfortunately, doing so would probably come off as more desperate and jealous than jokey, so she’d resolved to hold her tongue, however painful it was to watch. They were on tentative ground after the whole falling out still, and she didn’t want to stick her foot in it again, even if it really would have felt fantastic to launch her entire plate of scrambled eggs at Val.

With everything that had preoccupied her after the first task, Arya had all but forgotten about Lynesse Hightower and her annoyingly persistent photographer, and the nasty habit they had of sneaking up on people. The day after the tournament there had been a small but informative article on the champions and their first challenge with a picture of all four as they had received their model dragons, accompanied by a short interview with Renly Baratheon. The piece had been reserved, well-written and (she had thought) unusually free of scandals or wild speculation. She was jolted out of the false sense of security that Lynesse had lulled her into though, as Sandor slapped the morning paper down in front of her along with a huge cup of coffee. A massive moving image of her likeness covered the front page, glaring up at her from the table. A spiky black headline was squeezed into the top corner: ‘ _Arya Stark; Serial Seductress?’_ The image of her and Gendry took up most of the page however; Arya watched in half-fascination, half horror as the girl in the image twisted to passionately embrace the dark haired man standing behind her, before turning round again after the flashbulb of the camera to snarl at the reader once more. Arya’s face started to heat up with embarrassment within seconds. Everyone was going to see this; school was going to be hell again. Meera and Dany were going to have a field day at her and Gendry kissing on the front page of a public newspaper. Seductress? Where had Lynesse conjured _that_ from?

“Oh, fuck.” She moaned, keeling forward to rest her head on the table with an exasperated wail. So much for not drawing attention to herself. In hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have told the waspish journalist to piss off the other day. Front page news in the biggest wizarding newspaper in the country. Kissing her quidditch team captain. Jon and Robb were going to kill her well before any potential assassin could manage it. What on earth was Gendry going to say about that picture being featured on the front page? What on earth was her _mother_ going to say? Arya felt like crying and ripping the paper to shreds at the same time.

“Nice little article she wrote about you…” Sandor barked out with laughter, gulping down his own coffee. “I think the word ‘floozy’ was used once…” Arya lifted her head up and tentatively reached for the paper, not sure she even wanted to read it. The first few pages looked as though they featured heavily with Triwizard coverage, and Lynesse had clearly been doing her homework. There were more covertly taken pictures of her and Gendry together from that day in the tent, and a solo snap of her in her tournament outfit looking like an auror, along with one from last years’ quidditch team photograph-a rare smiling moment from the beater made it look like he was laughing at something Arya had just said. Several ‘sources close’ to Arya and Gendry had been quoted as saying the pair were often seen together all over Hogwarts, and that he was ‘obviously madly in love’ with her. She gulped at that; not sure how gruff, non-emotional Gendry would take that. Probably not very well, from what she knew of him-and that was surprisingly very little, in contradiction to how the article was making them out to be attached at the hip. Someone must have seen them together, all those times she had detention with Martell. And, she supposed, they had been seeing eachother for…other reasons, too. After the introductory image Lynesse had created of Gendry being head-over-heels for her, she then dropped the bombshell that Arya was also entwined with another student; ‘strikingly handsome Aegon Targaryen, fellow Gryffindor and son of the famous Rhaegar’. Fuck. In a ‘Daily Prophet exclusive’, Lynesse went on to provide quotes from yet another ‘close source’ to Arya about how she and Aegon had been spotted looking cosy in the woods after the tournament, accompanied by a picture of the pair of them emerging from the medical tent after the first task. The picture had been taken from a distance, but clearly showed Aegon standing with his arm around Arya’s shoulders as she faced the arena, looking down at her with what she could only describe as reverence. At the time she hadn’t noticed, having been preoccupied with getting out and finding her score; but seeing it in front of her now, her stomach did a little somersault. Maybe there was a chance after all. Or maybe Aegon was just happy to have his friend back, after their shaky fallout. Merlin’s beard though, Val was going to _murder_ her.

Shaking this thought out of her head, she skimmed the last few sentences of the article quickly, scoffing at the predictable comparison Lynesse had made between them, and the doomed relationship between Rhaegar and Lyanna. She always managed to slip that in somewhere, Arya thought ruefully as she closed the paper and stared at it in irritated silence. There was more to the article, but she didn’t honestly have the emotional strength to read any further yet. One thing she _did_ know was that she would need to make use of the marauders map a lot more now, as well as Robb’s cloak. And also that next time she saw Lynesse Hightower, she was going to have to try _incredibly_ hard not to bat-bogey hex her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sandor rise from the table, seemingly having spotted something out of the window. He let out another barking laugh and drained the rest of his coffee, opening the front door of his cabin in a clear indication that it was time for Arya to leave.

“Time for class, Stark. Looks like your boyfriend is the first to arrive.”

“Which one?” She joked weakly, pulling herself up from the table and gulping down her coffee, now almost cold. She sincerely hoped that her blushes had died down by now.

Aegon was the first in the column of Gryffindor students winding their way down towards the edge of the forest, and started positively beaming when he saw Arya slink down the steps from the cabin. He looked flushed as though he had run most of the way down the mountainside, satchel flailing behind him wildly and platinum hair falling into his eyes. Sandor had deserted to gather things for class, leaving Arya exposed.

“Alright, floozy?” Aegon called over as he skidded to a halt nearby, kicking stones up everywhere. Caught off guard by the unexpectedly chipper greeting, she wasn’t sure what the appropriate reaction was meant to be, so glared at his ecstatic grin for a second before launching her textbook at him.

“Oi calm down!” He laughed, raking a handful of waves back from his eyes. “I could bloody kiss you right now, Arya Stark!” He had deftly dived out of the way of the incoming book and was now retrieving it from the pumpkin patch behind, handing it over without so much as a bat of his eyelids at the fact that he’d just had the hefty text launched at his skull.

“Please don’t.” She said weakly, not sure if she was missing something? Had he actually _read_ the article? Aegon’s smile faltered temporarily, but flashed back up again within milliseconds.

“Don’t worry; I won’t let Waters overhear me saying that-”

“Aegon, Gendry Waters is _not_ my-”

“Wouldn’t want to get on his bad side, the _size_ of him! Have you seen him yet today? Had a right grim face on this morning. Looked like someone had pissed in his cornflakes, he-”

“Aegon, what _are_ you on about?” She asked exasperatedly, for the millionth time in a week feeling as though she was last to the punch line. “Why do you…why could you kiss me right now?”

“Val!” He exclaimed, now trailing behind Arya to the tables where the rest of their class was now starting to assemble. The Targaryen lowered his voice as they drew closer.

“I don’t follow…”

“She’s finally broken up with me!”

“Finally?! What do you mean _finally_? You two were all over eachother yesterday!” She hissed as they sat down, torn between ecstasy that Aegon was single and had wanted to break up with Val, and horror that it may have actually had something to do with her.

“She never bloody left me alone! Honestly it was like being with a Devils Snare; the more I tried to escape, the tighter she had hold of me! But then Lynesse published that…colourful article about you and Val went berserk! It was amazing, really. I’ve never seen her go so red in the face…”

“But you told her it wasn’t _true_ , right?” Arya glared at Aegon. He had the good grace at least to look guilty. Arya’s heart suddenly started to sink. “Aegon… it wasn’t _you_ , was it? You weren’t her source, right?”

“What? Arya, no of course not! I wouldn’t go near that woman with a ten foot pole, all the stuff she’s been spreading about you…all the stuff she’s said about my family in the past…” Aegon leaned in very close then and looked her in the eyes, after taking a quick glance in the general direction of everyone else to make sure they weren’t listening. “I would _never_ do that to you okay? Never.” As her grey eyes locked with his amethyst ones over the table Arya’s heart did a little somersault, for the second time already that morning. As much as she hated to admit it about herself, she wasn’t the sort of person to feel guilty about a situation like this. It wasn’t her fault after all, and she and Val had never exactly been friends. Falling out with someone you hadn’t ever been friends with wasn’t a great loss, in her books. And it wasn’t like she was eager to make any new ones right now either, since Robb and Jon had so delightfully reminded her that very few people at Hogwarts could be trusted anyway, nowadays.

“I’m just saying…the nasty witch did me a favour, is all…”

“Because you were too craven to break up with Val yourself, you mean? So instead she now thinks we’re together because of an article in some stupid newspaper.” Arya snarked with a smile, opening her book and searching for the correct chapter. Sandor had brought out some niffler skeletons for them to sketch and label, as well as a live specimen on a leash that was currently wriggling its way into someone’s school bag, sniffling loudly.

“Well, yeah. She seemed pretty mad about it and threatened to break up with me if it was true so…I didn’t exactly deny it…” Arya rolled her eyes. Aegon or not, boys were all complete and utter morons sometimes. She was however, trying hard not to find it funny that he had had to resort to measures such as this in order to break up with his girlfriend. “It wasn’t just that though…there were other things too…I’ve been a bit of a dickhead to her, really.” He admitted, having the good grace to look guilty.

“What else did you do?”

“I’ll erm-I’ll tell you another time…” Aegon suddenly trailed off as Sandor walked past, trying his best to control the niffler as it darted between students, sniffling rabidly for rings on fingers and pulling metal pieces off of bags. Arya nervously pulled her own sleeves down to cover her glittery green nail polish, hoping the little beast wouldn’t get any ideas. She needed her fingers whole and free from niffler bites for the quidditch match this weekend against Hufflepuff. 

“When she calms down a bit, I’ll find her and apologise. Not sure that will be for a few days though…”

“And in the meantime, I only have to share a room with her…”

“Ah, she wouldn’t touch you, you’re too famous. Front page newsworthy, actually.” He winked, and started on his own sketch.

“Oh Merlin, don’t remind me.”

*

Glad to have Aegon back on normal form and seemingly unbothered by his brief feature in the Daily Prophet article, Arya figured that part of her life would be a little easier at least. He’d been entirely unconvinced by her insistence that her and Gendry Waters were not together, but hadn’t pressed it any further. She was relieved in two parts for this; firstly, because she didn’t want to explain that she was definitely not over Aegon himself (not that she’d ever been _under_ him in the first place), and secondly, because she hadn’t yet had the chance to actually talk to Gendry about whatever the hell was going on between them. _And_ to apologise for entangling him in her messy feud with Lynesse Hightower. Definitely would need to apologise for indirectly making him front page news.

Meera was nowhere to be seen when she returned to Gryffindor for their shared free period after lunch, so Arya pulled on some leggings and an oversized jumper, shouldered her broom and descended to the pitch where she knew the quidditch captain would surely be. Pulling back the tapestry for the changing rooms, she came face to face with the man himself, halfway through changing into his practice kit. He turned around as the tapestry fell back into place, and Arya’s breath hitched slightly as she took in his bare chest, trying desperately to resist the urge to walk straight up to him and push him against the wall. It was hard to remember that she had to do the right thing and break it off with him soon, when he had the _audacity_ to look like that.

“Sorry.” She mumbled instead, turning the other way, pink-cheeked and headed towards the team closet to rifle through the bundle of Gryffindor robes. Gendry appeared next to her silently a moment later, retrieving his own (much larger) set of crimson robes, and tugging them on over his beaters jacket. Arya lamented that she wasn’t able to keep hold of her robes from the first task; they’d been retrieved from the floor of her tower bedroom by a house elf when she’d changed out of them, and hadn’t returned since with the rest of the clean laundry. She would look a lot more impressive in those robes, she thought. They also wouldn’t smell faintly like stagnant mud, unlike the robes she was currently pulling over her head. For one brief second she ridiculously wondered whether her mother had kept the picture of her in the Triwizard robes from the Daily Prophet article, before she remembered what _else_ was in the article. And the reason she had sought Gendry out in the first place.

Arya turned to speak, only to find the changing rooms empty again. Gendry had already left without her, leaving the tapestry swinging in the wind. Rude. She remembered what Aegon had said about Gendry not looking the happiest of people that morning and gulped. She stomped outside after him, watching just as he released a bludger from its leather cage and then proceeded to send it flying through the air with the beaters bat. As it hurtled across the field, he took a few practice swings at thin air, before meeting the angry ball as it returned, sending it flying again. Merlins beard. She couldn’t have picked a worse time to corner him if she’d tried.

“Waters…” she said tentatively, getting close enough to have a conversation without being within swinging distance.

“Stark.” He punctuated the name with another hard whack of the bat. He didn’t meet her eyes, concentrating on the ball.

“Been reading the news recently?” she hesitantly probed, still not sure if she should be apologising or making light of the situation. She eyed the bat suspiciously.

“If you mean that pile of dragon shite in the Daily Prophet this morning then yes, I have been keeping up to date…”

“And are you…mad?”

Gendry took his time bracing for another hit before he responded. “At you? No. At that fucking awful journalist? Of course.” Another well-hit bludger went careening off towards the far end of the pitch. Arya fiddled with a loose twig in the tail of her broomstick. “What I want to know is how she got her information. A lot of it’s absolute bollocks but she’d got some stuff right.”

“What stuff did she get right?”

“That photograph from our quidditch game at the end of last year, for one. And the fact that we _have_ been spending a lot of time together, someone’s obviously told her that, too.” Arya slyly noticed that he failed to mention the reason _why_.

“And that you’re madly in love with me?” she laughed, stepping forward as Gendry magically forced the bludger back into its cage with his wand. He tensed as she laughed, and immediately Arya felt like she’d made a misstep. Wait, _was_ Gendry actually in love with her?

“Yeah, that too.” he looked up, and thankfully was laughing as well. A tense moment stretched between them before either spoke again. Gendry rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Arya, what…what are we doing?”

“Erm, well I came to get some practise in before the game tomorrow…or you mean…?”

“Obviously I didn’t mean right now this second. Stop being awkward, you know what I mean.”

“Erm yeah, sorry. Right. Obviously.” She felt the colour rising to her cheeks as she mirrored his movements, reaching up to rub the back of her neck too. This was going to be awful.

“You like Aegon.” It wasn’t a question.

“…I like Aegon.” She admitted quietly. The first time she’d ever actually said it out loud, and to _Gendry Waters_ of all people.

“Okay.” Gendry nodded a couple of times, seemingly to himself more than anything. “Okay. That’s great. That’s really good. I’m happy for you.”

“Gendry…”

“No, I’m serious.” He looked down at her earnestly. “The way he looks at you…” he trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. Arya remembered the picture from the prophet, and the way Aegon had looked at her when her back was turned.

“Small problem of dear Valerie there, though.” Arya quipped, torn between relief at the fact that she was finally talking to someone about this, and the realisation that _that someone was Gendry._

“Yeah, maybe try and stay away from her until after the match tomorrow…” He grinned. At Arya’s questioning glance he further explained. “Can’t have you missing this one. Not after what happened last time. Thought I was going to have to substitute in Obara if you weren’t able to play again.” he visibly twitched as he spoke.

“Obara’s not a bad player.” she reasoned.

“No, but she’s-“

“Terrifying? Oh yeah definitely.” They both laughed and some of the awkwardness seemed to disapparate from the air finally.

“Please don’t tell anyone about Aegon.”

“I won’t. On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t let Jon and Robb kill me for kissing you on the front page of a newspaper.”

“Oh, I make no promises for that, Waters.”

*

Hours later Arya and Gendry returned to the castle in the dark exhausted, cold and starving hungry. They had made the mutual decision to continue quidditch practise and skip the Great Hall at dinner (also the rumours and heckling they were bound to get by turning up together) and snuck into the kitchens instead, wolfing down food happily given to them by the house elves. Finally they began the long trudge back up to Gryffindor tower, looking forward to a hot shower and deeply engrossed in discussing tactics for the game the next day against Hufflepuff. They were so involved in conversation that Arya completely missed the huge puddle of water on the corridor floor in front of her, until Gendry threw out an arm in front to slow her down. Looking up, she saw that his eyes were transfixed on the corridor ahead, something akin to horror slowly beginning to dawn upon his face. Arya quickly swivelled round to where he was looking, pulling out her wand at the same time, but no one was there. The entire second floor was like the surface of a lake however, water bubbling from a door at the far end and casting gloomy shadows upon the walls. The walls which bore writing Arya had never seen before. Ignoring Gendry’s warnings, she stepped closer to read the red letters scrawled across the cracked stone, her stomach sinking.

_“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware.”_


End file.
